


We Who Are Broken

by anslin



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Aftermath, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Corvo Bianco, Deireadh, F/M, Implied/Referenced Torture, Imprisonment, Recovery, Toussaint (The Witcher)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-04
Updated: 2019-04-13
Packaged: 2019-04-18 05:07:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 37,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14205726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anslin/pseuds/anslin
Summary: After years of separation, of pain and anger and betrayal, Geralt and Yennefer were supposed to have their happy ending, retired in Toussaint. The world, they discover, is rarely so kind.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this is my first time writing in the Witcher universe so I don't know how good this is, but I figured, why not give it a go. I'm not so sure about the title, but I'm going to leave it for now. I'm going with my game ending, so Geralt and Yen retired in Corvo Bianco, Radovid was assassinated, Emhyr is the emperor of Nilfgaard, and Ciri became a witcher. Anyway, enjoy!

_I_

For as long as Geralt had known her, loving Yennefer was like sitting by an open flame on a cold night; the warmth was addictive, but there was always the danger of getting burned.

It made their relationship a rocky, somewhat flighty thing, and Dandelion, with his head filled with ideas of the true love in romantic ballads, was often critical of it, but the witcher wouldn’t have it any other way. He was too old, too battle-weary, to believe in the love of shitty two-crown romance novels, but the passion and conflict intrinsic to what he and Yen had somehow made it more true, cementing it in reality.

This fire, the spark that burned in her violet eyes, that crackled at the tips of her slender fingers and lifted her curls from her slightly uneven shoulders, was so intrinsic to his image of her that when he first saw the frail form slumped on the ground he thought he must have counted the cells wrong.

He went back and recounted, his heavy steps pounding on the pitted stone of the floor, but sure enough his count had been right. The fifth cell on the left, the guard had said, before choking on his own blood.

Her skin was pale, sallow from weeks in darkness, marred by dirt and blood, seeming to sag loosely on her haggard frame. Her raven hair, stringy and brittle like straw, fell lifelessly around her, sticking to the bare skin of her back as she trembled.

Aside from a sudden wrack of tremors, she didn’t react as Geralt kneeled down near her, staring with her back to him at the far corner of her cell, where the dark stone of the walls fell beneath the straw that littered the floor. The feverish heat radiating from her burned his skin.

“Don’t.” She whispered, her voice icy, when he reached out to her, “Don’t touch me. Can’t you see I’m dying, you pig? Can a woman not have a bit of peace in the hours before her death?” The clink of dimeritium echoed as she attempted to throw her shoulders back in defiance and pulled away from his outreaching hand.

“Yen…”

She started to shake harder at that, and at first he thought she had begun to cry, but then he heard a mirthless chuckle escape her, a cruel, hollow sound sending shivers down his spine.

“No,” She said finally, and her face was turned away but he could almost imagine the wry smirk on her cracked lips. “It sounds exactly like him, but I know better. He won’t come here, and I know he won’t because I am not the only sorceress. There is still Fringilla, there is still Triss.” Her voice quavered as she breathed in a shaky breath, and then it cracked and fell into a whisper as she bowed her head.

“After all, haven’t you heard? Destiny is not enough, something more is needed.”

Geralt clenched his fists in his lap, gritting his teeth against the twinge in his chest. This was all wrong, this wasn’t how their retirement was supposed to turn out. She wasn’t supposed to have those doubts, not about him, not when it came to her.

“I’ve never had much faith in that kind of nonsense, myself.” He grunted.

She let out a humourless chuckle and turned around, a slow, shuffling manoeuvre, pale, bloodied lips curling into a small smile at the sight of his face.

“Oh, but you’ve outdone yourself, you even look like him.” Her eyes, a parody of their usual brightness, softened, and she reached out a manacled hand, torn fingernails lightly grazing the skin of his cheek, the rough stubble of his growing beard.

For a brief moment he saw her open up, saw her defences crumble, saw the pain and desperate, dejected love shining through. Then her face hardened into marble and her hand fell back to her side.

“As they say, do not mistake the stars reflected in the pond for the night sky.”

She made to turn away, but Geralt shot forwards, grabbing at her skinny, mangled wrist, desperate that she wouldn’t recede back into catatonia.

“Please Yen, please don’t say that, don’t turn away. Not while I’m so close, not when Ciri is waiting at home for me to bring you back. Please…” He looked away, swallowing hard, his adam’s apple bobbing, “We love you too much to bear that. I lo-“

He broke off as she pounced on him wildly, her face twisted into a feral grimace, her fingers scratching frantically at his eyes, at his arms, anything they could reach.

“Don’t you dare.” She snarled between panted breaths, “Don’t you dare speak of them. Don’t you dare tell me that, not with his voice, not with his face, not like you mean it. You can do anything you want to me, take anything, but you do not get them. I won’t let you.”

Her attack taking him by surprise, he tried to jump backwards, tripping over the heavy chains that bound the sorceress as he leapt to his feet, falling on his back. Instinctively, he grabbed at the fabric of Yennefer’s tattered dress for support, pulling her with him so that she landed spread out on top of him. Her cheek slammed against his chest, dazing her, and she stilled, falling quiet.

For a moment they just lay there, him breathing heavily, her head moving with the subtle rise and fall of his chest.

“Geralt…” She whispered after a moment, softly, brokenly, before repeating again more strongly, “Geralt?”

“I’m here Yen, I’m here.” He breathed in to speak more, but she just shook her head, digging her fingers into his arm.

“Just be quiet a bit longer. Just a bit longer.” Her voice faded out and she pressed her cheek harder against his chest, closing her eyes and tapping out a light rhythm with her one hand, a steady one-two that he recognised, after a moment, as that of his own heart.

His swords, pressed between him and the ground, dug into his back, the buckles on his armor imprinting on his skin, but he didn’t dare move, didn’t dare break the moment. Afraid she would recede back into the bitterness and panic of before, he lay still, just watching the top of her head. Despite the pain in his back, the tingling of his limbs slowly falling asleep, he thought he would lie here forever, if it made her happy.

After a minute Yennefer opened her eyes again, letting out a quiet sigh.

“Nobody else I know has a heartbeat quite like yours,” She explained, her voice uncharacteristically timid, afraid to break the silence that had fallen, “Even mages, with their illusions, can’t match it. They can replicate your face, your voice, your eyes, but their heart is always too fast.” She pushed herself off his chest slightly looking at him directly, “I know you don’t like it, that it makes you feel abnormal, wrong, but I find it nice. It’s like…” Her voice faded out and she looked away, abashed. Geralt smiled sadly.

“I love you too, Yen.” Pushing himself up onto his arms, he leaned forward and pressed his lips softly to her turned cheek before gently shifting her off of him and getting to his feet, “Come, Ciri is waiting for us. Show me those chains.”

Coming back to herself, she shifted back and held her bound hands up to him, pulling the dimeritium links taut. Geralt smote the metal with a single blow, reminding him of that moment, so many years ago, when he freed her on the steps of Stygga Castle. He pretended not to notice how she flinched when he drew his sword from his back, how her violet eyes darkened momentarily with fear as he brought the blade down.

She had recovered then, and she would recover now. There was no other choice.

He felt the air charge with electricity as the manacles fell from her wrists, a sudden gust of magic as though emerging from a vacuum. Subconsciously her hand went to her throat, fingers searching for her obsidian star on its black velvet collar, and the witcher could see her muscles clench when she didn’t find it there.

“Ciri has it back home.” He reassured her, “She found it in a pawn shop in Novigrad.”

The sorceress nodded curtly, pretending to be indifferent, but her posture relaxed visibly and she had a thankful smile on her lips as she reached a hand up to him.

“We’d best be getting back to her then. Help me up, won’t you?” At once she had slipped back into her usual mannerisms, but he could hear the underlying tremble in her voice. Geralt surreptitiously slipped one arm beneath her own as he helped her to her feet, supporting her when she swayed dangerously. Despite her attempt not to, she winced when she took a step forward, her legs nearly crumbling. Looking backwards, he saw a bloody footprint where her bare foot had been moments before.

“Are you sure you should be walking? I can always carry you.” Even as the words left the his mouth, he knew he would regret them.

“I am _not_ a damsel in distress, witcher,” She snapped, glaring at him, “and you will not be sweeping me off my feet and carrying me bridal style. I will walk out of here on my own two feet, or not at all, do you understand?” She took another step and bit her lip to stop from crying out, “That being said, how much farther do we have to go?” Geralt smirked.

“Just to the next level. They’ve added some wards to Deireadh since we broke Rita out, but they don’t extend past the dungeons. Ciri will be able to get us once we leave its reach.”

“Amateurs.” She mocked, spitting the words out through teeth clenched in pain.

They moved at a slow, shuffling pace, resolutely staring straight ahead as they passed the unidentifiable bodies slouched in the neighbouring cells. A small candle flickered in the guard room at the end of the hallway, and when they reached it the sorceress breathed in sharply, her eyes narrowing against the dim light.

“You were angry.” She said, her face impassive, as her eyes passed over the bloody, mangled bodies of the witch hunters, their usually impeccable armor cracked and twisted beyond recognition.

“You were hurt.” Was all Geralt said in reply.

The witcher could tell Yennefer’s strength was waning as he helped her up the winding stairs, frequently stopping to take in heaving gulps of air, dismissively waving off his resulting looks of concern, and relief washed over him when they finally reached the landing of the next floor. He helped her sit against the wall before settling down beside her, touching a talisman that hung next to his wolf pendant.

“Ciri should be here any minute.” He said in reply to her questioning glance before leaning his head back against the wall, watching her with tired eyes.

“Geralt?”

“Yes, Yen?”

“Back there, in the cell, what I was trying to say…” She looked down uncertainly, examining her broken nails. He watched her silently, waiting patiently until she was ready to continue.

When she looked back up at him, her violet eyes burned.

“Listening to your heartbeat, it’s like coming home.”

There was a flash of blue light, a streak of ashen hair, and then they were gone.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone for all the wonderful feedback I got, I'm smiling just thinking about it. I'm not going to have time to post tomorrow, so I'm posting a day early. Hope you guys enjoy!
> 
> *Update: As someone rightfully pointed out, I was being a bit repetitive in referring to Yen, so I have done my best to fix that. Thank you very much for letting me know!

_II_

He sat by the bed, slouched in a hard wooden chair with his hands clasped in his lap, staring blindly at the shock of raven hair peaking out from beneath the covers. Sleeping, Yen looked almost peaceful but for the whiteness of her knuckles, her hands gripping the heavy blankets like a life line.

A candle burned on the nightstand, viscous wax dripping down the brass candle holder and onto the varnished wood. When she was better, Geralt thought, she would yell at him for letting that happen, and the thought made him smile. Sunlight streamed in through the open window, the Toussaint sun warming the room and rendering the small flame pointless, but he hadn’t lit it for light anyway.

Breathing in deeply, the witcher closed his eyes, letting the scent envelop him. Lilac and gooseberries. The lack of it had struck him when he brought her home. He had forgotten that it was a perfume, and not an innate part of her, and seeing her without the accompaniment of that signature smell seemed wrong, somehow more telling of the damage done than the marks on her skin.

Ciri had found the candle at a market in Beauclair. Originally she had bought it to remind her of home while on the Path, but the first night with the Yennefer back, the two of them standing vigil by the bed, she had wordlessly fetched it from her pack and lit it. The familiar scent it gave off helped, if only slightly, to right the wrongness of the situation.

Yen had lost consciousness while they were whisked back to Corvo Bianco, the physical duress of teleportation too much for her body to handle. While she had done her best to be strong, Ciri had almost broken down at that, and Geralt knew that a part of her had imagined that once her mother was home, she would fix everything.

Despite spending much of her life fending for herself, despite being having grown up and watching her parents die, he knew that there was still the child in her that believed that he and Yen were invincible.

The ashen-haired girl was curled at the sorceress’ side, her knees bent towards her chest and one hand stretched out, unconsciously reaching for the woman beside her. Even from where he was, Geralt could see the white lines of new scars criss-crossing her arms from hunting monsters, and it made his heart constrict.

“You know if Mother was awake she’d tell you that it’s rude to stare.”

Startled, Geralt looked up at the sound of his daughter’s voice.

“I thought you were asleep.”

“I’ve been awake for awhile.” Muffled as it was by the pillow, he could still hear the teasing lilt in her voice. “Your senses are just dulling in your old age.”

“You’re one to talk. Used to be nothing could get you to sit still, and now look at you. It’s well past noon and you’re still in bed.” Turning to face him, she screwed up her face and stuck her tongue out before reluctantly pushing herself into a sitting position.

At the sudden shifting Yen stirred in her sleep, curling protectively in on herself and whimpering quietly. The half smile fell from Ciri’s lips and she turned around, pressing a gentle kiss to the sorceress' pale cheek before rearranging the blankets so they once more covered her frail shoulders.

Geralt watched as their daughter began to gently card her fingers through Yennefer's hair, the tension slowly melting from the sleeping woman’s frame with each stroke.

“I’ve never seen her like this,” Ciri whispered, so quietly that the witcher had to strain to hear her, “so… small. She-“ A chuckle escaped her and she looked down at her lap, “Somehow she always seemed to be the tallest person in the room, and now look at her.”

“I miss her, Geralt.” Hands clenching, curling up the bedclothes, she looked at her father brokenly, green eyes wide, “I miss her, and you promised you would bring her back.”

There was anger in her voice; pointless, childish anger, and Geralt felt himself swell with guilt. He tried to say something, to apologize, but no words came out and Ciri turned back to Yen, her bottom lip trembling.

“Mummy…”

Bringing her arm up to her face, she wiped angrily at the tears that had begun to fall with her sleeve.

“You promised, Geralt,” Her voice cracked and her nose ran, and the witcher was reminded of the frightened child she used to be, all those years ago, lost in the Brokilon Forest. “You promised, but this isn’t her. It can’t be her.”

She started to cry in earnest then, and Geralt, not knowing what to say, reached forward and gently pulled her onto his lap, holding her as she buried her face in his chest.

From the corner of his eye, he could see Barnabas-Basil through the crack of the slightly open door, hands clasped behind his back, looking expectantly at the master of the estate. Catching his eye, Geralt shook his head mutely, and the majordomo bowed his head before backing away.

There had been pity in the man’s eyes.

“She will come back to us, Ciri,” He said when his daughter began to calm down, “she always does. She’s strong.” Feeling his eyes begin to sting, he closed them for a moment, once more taking in the scent of lilac and gooseberries, before continuing, “If anyone can make it, it’s her.”

Breathing in a shuddering breath, Ciri nodded, the cotton of his tunic sticking to her wet cheek.

“Why, Geralt?” She asked after a moment, looking up at him searchingly, “Why did this happen? This was supposed to be our happy ending.”

Looking at his daughter, drying tears pooling along the line of the garish scar that split her cheek, at the woman he loved, normally so proud, lying bruised and defeated, dwarfed by the large bed, he shook his head and sighed, pressing Ciri closer to him.

“I don’t know” He whispered, “I don’t know.”

***   *   ***

Triss Merigold couldn’t stop her hands from shaking as she rode towards the main house of the Corvo Bianco estate. The Toussaint countryside was picturesque with the rows of immaculate grapevines, workers small like ants as they tended to the plants as far as the eye could see.

Her trembling was making her horse skittish, and it pulled at the reins anxiously, dancing on the dirt path, kicking up a cloud of dust. She tried pressing her hands against the pommel of the saddle to steady them, and the stallion snorted and shook its head, bending its neck back to nip at her foot in the stirrup.

“Stupid beast.” She growled, urging it forwards with a press of her heels and ignoring the baleful glance it cast her way.

The vineyard truly was gorgeous, and in other circumstances she would have found its beauty calming, but instead it reminded her only too well of what she might have had. She was doing her damn best to move on, and coming here, seeing all that could have been, only brought her back to those precious few months serving under Foltest, before Geralt had regained his memory.

Coming here forced her to remember, forced her guilt to resurface, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that no matter what happened, she would always be an intruder here.

The stable boy rushed forward to take the reins when she came to a stop before the house, holding the horse still as she dismounted. Smiling at him, she handed him a copper and mumbled a thank you before smoothing the skirt of her dress and walking up the stairs.

A bald man stood watching her as she made her way to the door, and she recognised him vaguely as the majordomo of the estate, though she couldn’t quite remember his name.

“Good afternoon, Ma’am.” He smiled pleasantly, “How may I help you?”

Acutely feeling how she didn’t belong, the sorceress busied her hands tugging her sleeves down her arms to hide how they continued to shake.

“I believe I’m expected here? Geralt of Rivia contacted me for help.” The man stared blankly at her for a moment before his eyes lit up with recognition.

“Ah, of course, Triss Merigold. Forgive me for not realizing it was you earlier. Everyone is currently under quite a bit of stress, as I’m sure you can imagine.” Opening the large, oak front door, he beckoned her inside. “Come, come in, I will have Marlene prepare something.”

“Thank you…” She trailed off, looking at him expectantly.

“Barnabas-Basil Foulty, at your service. Though you may call me BB, if you wish.”

“Thank you, BB.” She smiled graciously, allowing him to lead her to a seat at the table before he disappeared into another room, presumably the kitchens. And then she was sitting alone, and she didn’t know what to do.

Months ago, when she had last came to visit, Yennefer had pulled her aside and told her in no uncertain terms that she was not welcome here. The black-haired sorceress’ tone had been imperious, distant, but Triss had known her long enough to know that it was in pain, and not in anger. They had been friends once, before the witcher, before the Lodge, and even though betrayal had destroyed that amity, the memories were still there.

Though it had hurt, she had understood. The chance at happiness that Yenna and Geralt had been given was tenuous at best, and her being there was only a reminder of past mistakes, barely healed wounds.

Sighing she brushed her chestnut hair from her eyes, adjusting the lapis lazuli flower at her temple so it once more pinned her locks in place. No, she hadn’t expected to set foot in here for another few years. She had planned to let the dust settle.

Rarely did things go to plan.

She could hear crying upstairs, what sounded like Ciri’s voice, and she looked down at her hands, folded tensely in her lap, and fought the urge to run away from the mess everything had become.

Behind her Barnabas-Basil coughed politely, and she plastered a kind smile on her face before looking up, nodding in thanks when he handed her a steaming drink, her fingers reflexively curling around the porcelain of the teacup.

“Sir Geralt and Cirilla will be down in a moment. They apologise for the delay.” Triss smiled and shook her ahead, trying to imagine the witcher or his daughter saying anything quite so polite or poised.

“Where are they? I thought the master bedroom was downstairs.” The majordomo sat down beside her, and she took a sip of her tea, relishing the warmth.

“That is now the guest room. Lady Yennefer had the main room moved upstairs shortly after she joined the master of the estate.” He looked out the nearby window, his brow furrowing, “She declared its view of the sunset too beautiful to waste on the like of Sir Geralt’s guests.” The sorceress chuckled, the corners of her mouth turning up slightly, but the man beside her was unmoved, and it occurred to Triss that this man might be closer to Yenna now than she was.

Her heart clenched and she stopped smiling.

“How is she doing?” She whispered after a moment, as though afraid to let the words out into the open air. Barnabas-Basil looked at her curiously before shaking his head.

“Truly, Ma’am, I do not know. She hasn’t woken up since Geralt brought her here, two days past, but she cries out in her sleep at night and flinches away from being touched by anyone but Cirilla. We have done our best to wash and dress her wounds, but her fever won’t break.” He glanced at the leather satchel slung over her shoulder, “Perhaps your magic will be able to do what we can’t.”

“And Ciri and Geralt?”

Overhead she could hear shuffling, a chair scraping against the floorboards, two pairs of footsteps heading towards the stairs. The majordomo got to his feet and picked her now empty cup up from the table. He only shrugged in answer to her question before taking his leave.

Geralt reached the bottom of the stairs and looked at her, smiling tiredly, little more than a small curling up of the corners of his mouth.

Seeing the black circles under his eyes and the stoop of his shoulders, Triss Merigold couldn’t help but agree with the man who had just left.

They were surviving. What else could you expect?


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, so as I'm sure has become painfully obvious, I don't have anyone looking over my work beforehand, so I'm sorry for all the errors (and thanks to the unnamed person who corrected me on the last chapter!). That being said, I'm terrible with dialogue, as you will notice here, but please stick with me. I just needed to explain some stuff.
> 
> I also realize that right now there's a lot of Triss and not so much Yen, but that should be changing soon. It's just kind of ended up that way, given the circumstances of the story.
> 
> Anyway, enjoy!

_III_

_The frost on the cobblestones was melting against her skin, stinging her knees through the thin fabric of her trousers, stabbing at her palms, but the blood was so warm._

_It flowed over her fingers, onto the street in innumerable crimson rivulets, steaming as it came into contact with the frigid air. Seeping into the lines and ridges of her pale skin, staining the white of her starched blouse, drying in outlines around her perfectly shaped fingernails, and no matter what she did it wouldn’t stop._

_Gritting her teeth, she pressed harder into the witcher’s flank, ignoring the broken links of his chainmail as they tore at her hands, convincing herself resolutely that if she just put a bit more pressure, if she just pressed a little harder, the bleeding would stop and everything would be alright._

_There was blood everywhere, running up her arms, clumping and flaking in his normally snow-white hair, tarnishing his steel blade where it lay, having fallen from Geralt’s hand._

Silver for humans, steel for monsters – no that can’t be right. _She shook her head at the thought, ignoring the raven curls that tumbled into her face, glancing at the carnage all around her._ But how could this have been done by anything other than monsters?

_It was so hot, too hot, burning under the fire of his golden eyes, glazed over, staring blindly at the Rivian sky, the constant, inexorable stream of blood scalding her… so much blood…_

_Exhaustion dragged at her eyelids, curling her back and weighing down her arms as she fought not to collapse. A sob escaped her as she dredged up more energy, pouring it from her shaking hands, desperately murmuring fragments of hopeless incantations, already knowing they wouldn’t work. As though through a veil, she could hear the bite of her daughter’s voice, and it tore at her._

_There is nothing more pathetic than a crying sorceress_

_She wanted to yell that she didn’t care, that it didn’t matter anymore. That she had been strong, cold, distant, everything she had been taught to be, and yet she had still ended up here. She opened her mouth to do so but the ash of the burning inn scratched at her throat and she couldn’t draw in the breath to speak._

_The blue sparks died from her fingers and she reached weakly for Ciri even as she began to crumple, her head falling on the witcher’s mangled chest, but the young woman pulled away angrily._

_“What use are you, Yennefer, if you can’t save him?” She spat, emerald eyes narrowed and empty, “If you really cared, you would have done everyone a favour and died instead.”_

_The sorceress only closed her eyes, too tired, too convinced of it herself to try and protest. She tried to listen for Geralt’s heartbeat, searching for that small comfort, that familiarity, but, of course, she couldn’t find it. She would never find it again._

_Through the curtain of her eyelashes, she watched the ashen-haired woman dissolve into mist, floating away with the smoke of the burning village. Absently, she could feel fingers running gently through her hair, and she focused on the soothing movement as the world started to go black._

_She felt a brush against her forehead, the bristles of a close-shaven beard scraping at her skin as someone moved their head just above hers, and though his heart was silent she would have recognised his voice anywhere._

_“I guess your father was right.”_

_Tears falling down her cheeks, she pummelled at his broken chest with her fists and screamed. The world melted._

Mere inches away, Ciri gently wiped the sweat from her mother’s brow as she shivered in her sleep.

***   *   ***

“We got into a fight.”

Geralt sat on the other side of the table, mumbling into a mug of dark ale. His broad shoulders were hunched and his gaze fixed downward, as though all the answers he needed lay in the depths of his cup.

“We fought about something stupid, I can’t even remember what, and she stormed off.” Triss watched him carefully, picking a green grape from the platter between them and slipping it into her mouth. The witcher, she noticed, hadn’t touched any of the food the steward had brought in. When he didn’t continue, she spoke up.

“Is that unusual?” He grunted, the sound turning into a guttural almost-laugh, and shook his head.

“No, not at all. Pretty common actually. She’s always been a difficult person, quick to anger. So am I.” He paused, looking evenly at the auburn-haired sorceress, challenging her, until she began to grow uncomfortable under his gaze. “But you already know that, of course.”

“You two were made for each other.” She agreed, too quickly, pushing down the pain welling in her chest at those words. “Is it common for her to be gone for three weeks, though? Is that why it took you so long to realize something was wrong?”

The witcher slammed his drink down on the table, ale sloshing over the lip of his mug onto his clenched hands. Triss smiled triumphantly, discreetly covering the expression by bringing another grape to her lips. If he had been trying to unsettle her, well, two could play at that game.

“I should go check on Ciri.” His tone was tense, curt. The young woman had gone back upstairs to sit with Yennefer after greeting Triss, reluctant to leave her alone for even a moment.

She placed a manicured hand on his arm, stilling him.

“In a moment. Nothing’s going to happen in the next few minutes, and I need to understand what happened if I’m going to help.” She sighed when he pulled away, her fingernails clacking against the wood of the table. “Forgive me, Geralt, I shouldn’t have said that, but if you’re so angry, why even ask for my help to begin with?” Sighing, the witcher let his head fall into his hands.

“Sorry, I’m not angry. I’m just tired, I suppose, tired and frustrated.” He rubbed roughly at his eyes before taking a long drink from his cup, froth glistening on his upper lip when he finally put it down. “I appreciate your coming here, Triss, I really do, but why are you asking me questions you already know the answer to? Yen is upstairs, and she’s hurt, and instead of helping her you just want to sit here and… _talk_.” He practically growled the last word, and she could see the hand on the table clench involuntarily.

“I’m going to help her,” she promised gently, softening her voice and covering his hand with her own, smaller one, “but to do that I need to know what happened. I need to know how long she was missing, I need to know who she was with, what they might have done. If I just blunder forward blindly, I could end up hurting her more instead, and that’s the last thing anyone needs.”

“Right. You’re right.” He exhaled roughly, and the sorceress thought that she would have to force him to get some sleep once this conversation was over. “Well then, I suppose it took almost a week and half before I realised something was wrong.” Triss furrowed her brow in confusion.

“Why so long?”

“I picked up a contract, some silver basilisk that was thinning the merchant population.” He waved a hand at the sorceress’ obvious amusement, “I know, I know, I’m supposed to be retired, but I thought I could use the extra money to get Yen a gift, something small to thank her for putting up with me. It ended up being a bit more complicated than I thought, though. Some lordling or other was trying to protect it, claimed it was the last of its kind, that it was harmless so long as nobody ventured onto its territory.”

“A silver basilisk? Oxenfurt Academy classified that species as extinct just last year.” Her voice was filled with amazement. “Did you kill it?”

The witcher shook his head.

“No. Used to be I would have, but I guess I’ve grown a soft spot for dying species, now that I’m one of them.” Triss looked at him oddly.

“Witchers don’t have to die out, you know. It would take time, but the recipes of old can be recreated.”

“Yes they do. And it’s naïve to think otherwise.” Feeling her face flush with embarrassment, the sorceress looked away. “And in any case, that’s not what we were talking about.” From the corner of her eye she could see Geralt look back down at his cup. “As I was saying, there was more to the contract than I thought and it took longer than I anticipated. I assumed that Yen had come back already, that she would have calmed down and be reading some book or managing the vineyard’s accounts, but when I came back to Corvo Bianco, she wasn’t there.”

“It took another fortnight to track her down. Ciri showed up after the first day, said she had started having her dreams again, that that’s how she knew something was wrong.” Triss frowned.

“You and her are linked by destiny, that’s why she has those dreams. But you weren’t in trouble, Yenna was.” The witcher smiled sadly in response.

“It happened before, too. With Vilgefortz. Always told Yen she was as much her daughter as mine.”

Feeling her throat constrict, the auburn-haired woman returned to the previous topic, her voice brusque, business-like.

“What did you try to track Yenna down?”

“Ciri tracked the active crystals in her pendant, you know, the obsidian star. Apparently they leave some kind of magical signature.” He shrugged, “To be honest, I didn’t really understand, but she seemed to know what she was talking about, and she ended up catching a scent too. It was a dead end, though. The whoresons had pawned it off to some Novigradian loan shark.” Triss swore under her breath.

“You got it back, I assume? That amulet is the prize of her career, she would not take losing it lightly.” He looked at her incredulously.

“Of course I did, do you think I don’t know that? It’s in her nightstand upstairs.” She nodded.

“How did you manage to find her, then, if that led nowhere?” Grimacing, he took another swig from his mug and frowned when he found he had drained the last of it.

“You know witch hunters, how else are they going to maintain those beautiful smiles without a drug habit? And fisstech costs money, and money stinks.” At the mention of the fanatical synod, the sorceress scowled.

“Don’t play games with me.” She snapped, “You helped orchestrate Radovid’s assassination, hell, you even saw Philippa deal the killing blow. King Radovid of Redania is dead, and so is his ploughing witch hunt.” The witcher raised an eyebrow, watching her evenly, for once looking her in the eye instead of staring into his ale.

“You’ve been away in Kovir too long, you’ve forgotten how the world works here, in the Northern Realms.” His words took on a sarcastic drawl. “Throughout the entirety of the Third Nilfgaardian Invasion, Novigrad remained a free city. The witch hunters were only able to continue their massacre inside the city by the grace of _His Excellency_ Cyrus Engelkind Hemmelfart, Hierarch of Novigrad. After Radovid’s assassination, he decided to continue the late king’s good work, and the witch hunters didn’t much care who gave the orders so long as they got the coin.”

“Unfortunately,” he said, “cruelty and hatred don’t die so easily as kings.”

“Don’t go getting poetic on me.” Triss responded dryly. “In any case, your story still doesn’t add up. You told me that you found Yenna in Deireadh, but the prison’s in Oxenfurt. Since when does the Hierarch of Novigrad have that much reach?”

“Like I said, money stinks. And everyone can be bought.” Sighing, Geralt pushed himself to his feet, groaning as he stretched out his legs. “Once we figured out where Yen was being held, the rest was easy. Now can you please come help her? I’ve told you everything I know.”

Getting up, she carefully stepped over the bench so that the skirt of her dress lifted just high enough for him to get a clear view of her upper thigh. Obviously annoyed when the witcher didn’t react, she adjusted the satchel at her shoulder and gestured at her packs by the door, which the stable boy had brought in.

“A moment Geralt. Is there somewhere I could put my bags down and get set up before we start?” Clearly frustrated, the witcher glared at her before picking them up and carrying them to an adjoining room.

“You can stay in the guest room. Ciri’s spending most of her time upstairs anyway, she won’t mind moving.” He looked at her as she followed behind him, sitting herself down before the vanity and searching through her bag. “I know you’re not on the best of terms right now, but you and Yen were friends once. How can you sit here so calmly while she’s hurting upstairs?”

The sorceress smiled to herself, glad she had successfully managed to hide her nervousness, her shaking. _I am not calm, witcher,_ she thought to herself, _I want to run to her as much as you do, but Yenna and I had many of the same teachers, and mages are vindictive._

_I will play the indifferent witch because kindness is debt, and Yennefer’s pride will kill her before it lets her become indebted to me._

Instead of saying that she pulled a tube of lipstick from her satchel and turned to face the mirror, puckering her lips.

“It’s very simple,” she said evenly, “were it truly a matter of life and death, you wouldn’t be putting up with me at all.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter! Yay! This one's fairly long too. Thank you to Linux for looking over my work and putting up with me and my obstinacy.

_IV_

Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, heiress to Cintra, Inis Ard Skellig and Inis An Skellig, Princess of Brugge, Duchess of Sodden, Suzerain of Attre and Abb Yarra, and child of _Hen Ichaer_ , the Elder Blood, knew all too well what it was to be helpless.

Her entire life she had been played as a pawn, from her first steps in the Cintran court, trussed up in silk ribbons to prance before nobles. Though her early childhood had undoubtedly been a loved one, it had been constricting, and so, as a young princess, she had started her habit of running away.

She had run straight into Geralt, and her destiny had followed.

The Chapter, Vilgefortz, Leo Bonhart, Emhyr var Emreis, the Lodge. Avallac’h and the Aen Elle. Yes, she knew what it was to be powerless, to look on as an unwilling observer while the world and her fate were decided for her.

Watching her mother twitch nervously in her sleep, she thought that all that experience didn’t make it any easier.

It had taken Triss several hours to treat Yennefer’s wounds, time passing excruciatingly slowly as she painstakingly cleaned and dressed each cut and burn. They had opened a window to air out the stench of the odorous paste she had pressed to the damaged skin, and the injured woman’s hair danced in the autumn breeze that drifted in.

Silhouetted by the backdrop of the moonlight, she appeared more shadow than woman, delicate and wispy, lying and waiting to be shattered by the first light of day.

All Ciri wanted to do was hold those pieces together, but she had forsaken that ability lifetimes ago, burning away into nothing amidst the sand dunes of the Korath Desert.

Though she didn’t complain, it was painfully clear that the auburn-haired sorceress’ magic was not enough, that, alone, the energy she needed to draw to heal Yennefer was pushing her past the point of exhaustion. After the first hour, she had dragged Geralt out of the room, and through the wood of the door the ashen-haired woman could hear her demanding that he contact other members of the Lodge; Rita and Fringilla, perhaps, or even Philippa.

Once more, Ciri was amazed at how ignorant Triss could be, how idealistic she was at times compared to the cynicism of her brethren. Despite all that had happened, she still seemed to see Yennefer and the other sorceresses as divorced parents, desperately convincing herself that given time, they would reconcile and see eye to eye.

The divide, of course, was too fundamental for any such thing to occur, as had been proven innumerable times over the years. Nonetheless, she kept trying.

Had she only suggested Margarita Laux-Antille, the witcher would probably have agreed, but her petition was doomed as soon as she mentioned the Nilfgaardian sorceress. Mentioning the unofficial head of the mages’ cabal turned the entire request into a joke; Philippa Eilhart would sooner slice Yennefer’s throat in her sleep and call it anaesthesia.

The gruffness of Geralt’s words carried easily through the walls, taut and grim as he responded with a curt refusal. When they came back into the room moments later, Ciri half expected to see him with his teeth bared.

Instead, his face was completely unreadable but for the tension in his lower jaw. Triss had the grace to look abashed, and she looked neither of the room’s other two occupants in the eye before sitting down and returning to her work.

Only later did the witcheress realize that her fists, clenched angrily at her sides, must have given away her thoughts on the matter as well.

A particularly hard gust of wind blew a golden leaf through the window, tearing it from its tenuous hold on the tree just outside and tangling it in the sleeping sorceress’ onyx curls. When Ciri reached for it, the leaf fragmented, breaking apart into dust and brittle shards.

 _I couldn’t hold it all together,_ she thought as she gently removed the fragments from the curls, _and now I’m stuck picking up the pieces_.

She accidentally pulled one of the strands a bit too hard, and Yen curled further into her side, whimpering softly. Apologising in more of a breath than a whisper, her daughter pressed her lips to her head and pulled the covers higher over her slight frame to ward off the shivers that wracked her.

The bones of the sorceress’ shoulder blades pressed into Ciri’s chest as she lay down and hugged her from behind, hoping to give her some of her own body warmth. The ridges of each rib were prominent under the young woman’s fingers even through the thick layer of bandages, the protrusion of her collar bone all too reminiscent of the dimeritium collar that had been chained around her neck.

“When you wake up, Marlene’s going to make all of your favourite foods.” Smiling into the crook of her mother’s neck, Ciri spoke drowsily, her eyelids beginning to drift shut in the warmth of the covers and the familiarity of the woman beside her. “There will be roast duck, with a cherry and red wine sauce, caramelized dates stuffed with feta cheese… No seafood, of course.” She chuckled softly.

“And a giant cask of apple juice. Geralt had BB fill the cellar with them, you know. If you asked him, he would probably figure out some way to turn Corvo Bianco into an apple orchard instead. How different can pressing apples be from pressing grapes?” She paused, lost in thought for a moment.

“Then again, maybe not.” She whispered, the smile fading from her face. “Be a bit too much like the Isle of Avalon, I think, too big a reminder of the past.”

But for the rustling of the trees outside, the room was quiet, and the witcheress held Yennefer closer as she shivered despite how the heat of her skin burned. Triss had spent most of her magic fighting the infection that had set in amidst the dirt and rot of the sorceress’ wounds, and while already the puffy quality had began to seep from them it would be awhile before the fever died down.

All that was left to do was to wait.

Ciri hated waiting.

Getting out of the bed with a sigh, she wrapped the wool blanket folded at the foot of the bed around her shoulders and tucked the covers tightly around Yennefer before carefully walking past Geralt, her bare feet padding near silently on the wooden floor boards. He was slouched in the same uncomfortable chair, his chin tucked into his chest and his hair falling in lanky strands like a curtain across his face. Triss had finally managed to convince the witcher to get some much needed rest, and the last thing she wanted to do was wake him.

Patting the velvety nose of the stuffed unicorn on her way out, Ciri held her breath as she made her way down the steps, remembering her training from Kaer Morhen as she slunk silently through the house and out the front door. Only once she stepped outside did she breath out, closing her eyes and turning her face into the night breeze.

The wind tugged at the hem of her nightgown as she strayed from the dirt path, enjoying the feeling of the grass springing beneath her feet, the cool comfort of the dew that dripped down her ankles and gathered in the creases between her toes. The pain and sorrow that the house was steeped in was suffocating, clouding her lungs with the dust of unspoken words, and the clear sharpness of the fresh air lifted the weight from her chest, if only momentarily.

She wandered until she found herself on the low hill where Yennefer liked to sit and read on warm days, standing at the edge of the overhang, looking out onto the winding peacefulness of Toussaint. She didn’t dare look to her left; nobody had remembered to move the lounge chair and it sat starkly empty, dark patches staining the velvet cushions from the damp.

Clouds had rolled in to cover the stars, and she couldn’t see them anymore.

She pulled the blanket closer around herself.

“I’ve never seen a witcher wearing a nightdress before, you know.” Ciri barked out a laugh at the sound of the rough voice.

“It’s a new fashion. Soon every witcher will be wearing one, just you wait and see.” Geralt walked up beside her, pulling her hair from where it was trapped between her back and make-shift cape before looking at her with amusement. His eyes seemed to glow in the dark, gold like stars.

“I guess we should be visiting Lambert soon, then. That’s something I would pay to see.” Smiling, she leaned her head against his shoulder, letting him wrap an arm around her.

“Sorry,” she said after a moment, “I didn’t mean to wake you.” Pausing, she pushed a lock of ashen hair out of her face with her free hand. “And for yelling at you earlier, I guess.”

“Don’t worry about the yelling, it’s normal to be angry.” He smiled, and she could feel the rumble of his chest when he laughed, “Though I have to say, you’re almost as frightening as Yen when you are. _Almost._ ” He stressed when she grinned cockily. “You’re not there yet, so don’t get any ideas.”

“Really, though,” The witcher frowned at her, “how do you expect to fight in a nightgown if you get attacked while on the Path?” Lifting her head, Ciri rolled her eyes at him.

“I don’t sleep in a nightdress while I’m out hunting, you idiot, I wear my armour. It’s just when I’m here and,” fidgeting, she waved her arms as though to convey what she was trying to say, “you know, safe.” Green eyes glinted as she smirked, “Bet I could still beat you in a fight though.”

Pulling away, he raised one eyebrow and chuckled.

“Oh really? I’ll have to take you up on that challenge sometime.” Starting forward, he turned back and held a hand out to her, “But for now, come. I want to show you something.”

Taking his hand, she followed him down the hill, holding the blanket over her shoulders with her other hand. He led her away from the main buildings, towards a corner of the vineyard populated with olive trees. When she realized where he was leading her, she pulled on his hand to get him to stop.

“No, Geralt,” she explained when he glanced back quizzically, “I don’t want to go there. I don’t want to think about that, not now.” Shaking his head, the witcher pulled her to him and hugged her tightly before letting go.

“We don’t have to if you really don’t want to,” He looked her directly in the eye as he spoke, making sure she didn’t look away, “but it’s not a bad thing, I promise you. And it’s important that you see it.” Ciri scowled in confusion, and he smiled. “Come.”

She was unable to see, so Geralt guided her through the tangle of gnarled roots and loose stones, his pupils dilated in the darkness. It was only a few minutes longer before he stopped her with a small squeeze of his hand and lit the wax candles already sitting on a large rock with a gesture of his fingers.

The flickering light of the small flames gave an ethereal quality to the neat row of headstones, glinting off the polished granite and turning the names engraved on the stone into carved shadows.

Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach. Maria “Milva” Barring. Angoulême.

“Geralt…” Ciri sighed, looking away. “You know I will always appreciate what your friends did, but I don’t want a reminder of their sacrifice, not right now. I don’t want to think about how everyone dies for me. Because of me.” She hugged herself, pulling the blanket tighter around her shoulders.

“I know,” the witcher said, picking up one of the candles, the light casting strange shadows on his face, “and that’s not why I brought you here. Look.” Turning away, he moved forward and illuminated a small patch of ground a few steps away.

He didn’t know how he had expected her to react, but he certainly hadn’t anticipated the blank expression that came over her, falling like a curtain over her features, shuttering them. Her utter stillness was unnerving, a frightful impassivity but for the slow clenching and unclenching of her fists, and he rushed to explain.

“We know they have a proper grave, that they are buried in Jealousy, but that’s far away and we thought you might like a way to remember them without having to go back to that place.” At his voice, the illusion of calm shattered like ice crystals, and Ciri whipped to face him, her eyes cold with fury.

“I said I don’t want a reminder!” Her voice cracked as she screamed the words, the muscles in her arms and hands so tense that they shook violently. Beneath the anger, the expression she turned on her adoptive father was twisted with stunned betrayal, as though she couldn’t believe he would do this to her.

“I don’t want a reminder.” The words slipped through the cage of her clenched teeth as she repeated herself, quieter now, and fiercely calm. “I can remember all the people I failed, all the people who got screwed over because of me and my _destiny_ , without some fucking landmark. And of all the people…” Her voice trembled, and she sucked in a deep breath before pointing a shaking finger at the six new gravestones, laid out in a neat row. “Of all the people who have died because of who I am, they are the last ones I want to remember.”

Placing the candle on the ground, the witcher moved to comfort her, but she turned away as he reached out to her, pulling in on herself, and his hand fell back to his side.

“I know what I did as Falka was wrong, evil even. I know that I let you and Yennefer down, and I regret what I did every second, but you weren’t there when I needed you, and I didn’t know what to do.” There was no more anger in her words, replaced by a subdued emptiness as she wrapped her arms around her stomach and bowed her head. “Do you know how often I see the eyes of the Baron of Casadei’s daughter when I close my own? The poor girl was terrified and I laughed at her, I _laughed_ at her, Geralt. But I don’t know what to do, I don’t know how to fix it.”

“And I know I should hate them, that they were twisted and awful and that they used me, turned me into one of them, for their own amusement. I know that you and Mother do, you hate them for all they did to me, but no matter how hard I try, I can’t. I miss them, you know.” She laughed hollowly, a cruel, self-deprecating sound. “Everything they did to me, everything they did to so many others, and I would still be happy if I saw them ride up to Corvo Bianco tomorrow morning. I still want to hear Mistle tell me she loves me one more time, even though I know she’d be lying.”

“I know its wrong, and I’m sorry, I really am. I’m doing everything I can to put them and all my failures behind me, to make up for everything I’ve done, so why did you do this?” She turned to face him, her eyes glistening. “I know I let you both down, but did you really need to build a graveyard of my mistakes to remind me of my guilt?”

The witcher sighed and shook his head tiredly, running a hand through his hair.

“We didn’t do this to get back at you for the past, Ciri, we did this because we know you miss them. It was Yen’s idea, she wanted to make sure they weren’t forgotten, that you had a place to remember them.” Pausing at Ciri’s confused expression, Geralt reached out, and when she didn’t turn away again he pulled the young woman to him, letting her press her cheek against his chest.

“They were there for you when we weren’t,” He explained, the gruffness of his voice comforting as she closed her eyes and listened, “whether they were a good influence or a bad one, they were there and you cared for them. Loved them even.” The young woman hummed softly in agreement, and Geralt pressed a quick kiss to the top of her head, like he used to when she was a small child.

“And Yen loves you. She may not say it or show it often, but you are her daughter, and if someone is important to you, then they are also important to her.” He looked at the graves, shadows in the sputtering candlelight, and nodded to himself. “I think,” He whispered, “I think she also wanted to thank them. Thank them for bringing you back to us, in whatever indirect way they did.”

“Why did you bring me here?”

The olive trees rustled in the breeze, whispering quietly, and he could here the distant sound of crickets singing in the night.

“Because you need to know that she will be alright, and she will make it, if for no other reason than that she loves you too much not to. And she loves everything about you, Ciri, everything. You are enough, do you understand? You don’t need to be anything else, and you for sure don’t need to be able to fix everything. Just being here is enough.”

“We love you, past mistakes and all.”

For awhile she didn’t respond, simply looking at the six gravestones, solemn beneath the olive trees, with an unreadable expression. The witcher waited patiently, and after a long time she wrapped her slender arms around his waist and hugged him tightly.

“Thank you.” She whispered, before extricating herself from his hold and kneeling down before the headstones.

Geralt knelt beside her, head bowed, as she traced each of their names, carved in a graceful, curling script, remembering their faces, their voices, as if through a fog. Asse’s ridiculous beard, Giselher’s perpetual grimace, Iskra with her multitude of colourful earrings and necklaces. Kayleigh’s hard green eyes and Reef’s thick accent. And Mistle…

She paused at Mistle’s name, her fingers curling against the stone. A small mistletoe wreath had been carefully carved beneath the letters, and she pressed her forehead briefly against the cool granite before wiping the unshed tears from her eyes with her sleeve and leaning over to rest her head on the witcher’s shoulder.

They sat there until the sun rose.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, here's another chapter, its kinda angsty, sorry guys. Thanks to Linux for reading stuff over and the suggestions, I'm annoying and I didn't change something he told me to so sorry but I couldn't think of anything better to put instead and it was stressing me out so I left it. Also, unless some unforeseen miracle occurs, I'm not going to be able to post next week because I'm drowning in end of semester schoolwork, but I should be back onto the whole weekly thing after that.  
> Anyway, enjoy!

_V_

_She was watching the workers’ children playing in the fields when she heard him, each heavy footstep, wearily climbing the creaking steps, an achingly familiar sound. The jingle of his chain mail, the scraping of leather against steel as he moved, she knew those as well as the back of her hand, and she loved them. Though harsh, those sounds meant that he had returned home, that he was, at least for the moment, safe._

_She heard him coming even from the bottom of the stairs, but she didn’t turn to greet him or even acknowledge him when he stopped at the top of the landing. Instead, she continued to watch the children below, smiling as their laughter drifted in through the open window where she sat. The sun was low in the sky, painting the last hours of the day in shades of pink and gold, and she knew they would run home soon, back to their parents and their beds._

_But for now they played and she watched, pretending the sight didn’t make her heart ache._

_Behind her she could hear fumbling as he unbuckled his swords from his back and laid them in their sheathes on the table, the gentle ring of metal against metal as he removed his jerkin and pulled his hauberk over his head. With a casual flick of her hand the basin in the corner of the room filled with water, and he grunted in thanks. Soon after, she heard the water ripple and a deep sigh as he settled into the bath, the lap of the water calming as he began to wash himself._

_Outside, one of the children, a little girl with straw-coloured hair, fell to the ground with a yelp, tumbling into the grass as she tripped over her own two feet. Even from the second floor, she could see the child’s face twist up as her eyes filled with tears, and she had to dig her nails into the windowsill to stop herself from swooping down to comfort her._

_She was a heartless sorceress, after all, and that wasn’t her daughter._

_A sandy-haired boy helped the girl to her feet, presumably her brother, and he said something to her that made her giggle, her pain forgotten. The sound carried like wind chimes to the woman at the window, and she closed her eyes, wondering if Ciri’s laugh had sounded like that at that age._

_The sun eclipsed the horizon, and the children ran back to the workers’ quarters in the fading light, back to their families and their homes. Their laughter rang in her ears even after they had disappeared, and she let her head fall against the edge of the wall, lost in thought._

_She could hear the patter of water dripping onto the floor as he swung his legs over the side and got out of the tub, the soft rustling as he wrapped a towel around his waist before padding up behind her and wrapping a strong arm around her. Sighing, she leaned back into the solidity of his chest, pressing her nose into the hollow of his neck._

_"Again?”_

_His voice was like an earthquake thrumming through him, low and half-whispered, more a vibration than a sound. She didn’t respond, couldn’t bring herself to speak the words or nod her head, because to do so would be to admit that she was vulnerable, that she was hurting, but he understood anyway. He always understood._

_Pulling her closer he rested his chin on the top of her head, watching the night steal over the sky through the glass while she pressed her lips to his skin, over his heart. Her fingers dug into his bicep, leaving red half-moons as she held him tightly, letting herself get lost in the smell of him, the strange lavender of the soap he had just used and, underneath, the familiar smell of cured draconid leather and the tang of iron._

_“I love you, Yen.” She could hear the weariness in his voice, imagined that if she were to look up his eyes would be half-lidded and drowsy, lulled by the warmth of her skin and the twilit darkness that crept over their room. “And I would give you anything, I would give you the whole world, but I’m so sorry-“ He paused, pressing his nose into her curls, “I’m so sorry, but I don’t know how to give you that.”_

_There was no need to say that it wasn’t his fault, that he had already given her Ciri, given her more than she ever could have asked for, could have hoped for. There was no need to repeat what Villentretenmerth had said, decades ago, in the mountains near Barefield. It was impossible, they both knew it, but despite that it still tore at her, a hole in her chest she didn’t know how to fill._

_Feeling tears prick at the corner of her eyes, she pressed kisses to his neck, running her hands over his arms and bare chest, desperate to forget, if only for awhile, to distract herself before she began to cry. Leaning down, he captured her lips with his own, rubbing the calloused pad of his thumb over her cheek, his other hand tangling in her hair._

_He felt like love and home and she craved it, trying to drown a lifetime of pain and loneliness in the feeling of his skin against hers and the fire of his thoughts, tangling in her mind with her own so she could barely distinguish them._

_She knew she didn’t deserve this, but the world was cruel and she had always been selfish._

_Pulling away, her eyes blazed violet, reflecting off the tears on her cheeks._

_“Love me, Geralt.”_

_Afterwards, he held her tightly, her back pressed against his chest and their legs tangled together, the sheets kicked to the side. She pretended it was for his sake, and not her own._

***   *   ***

_“Come back to bed, Yen.”_

_His words slurred together, heavy with sleep, muffled by the pillow his face was half-pressed into. Encircling her arms to ward of the chill of the night, she shook her head, her finger pausing from where it traced each word on the thick, vellum pages._

_“In a moment. Go back to sleep.” She pursed her lips, her brow furrowing in concentration as she turned back to the heavy book, trying to find some hidden answer in the words she’d read thousands of times. She didn’t look up, but she could hear the shuffling of blankets and the creak of the bedsprings as Geralt got up, moving drowsily to the desk where she sat and peering over her._

_One hand rested heavily on her shoulder as he leaned over, his breath making the beeswax candle flicker as he flipped the book over to read its leather-bound cover._

The Poisoned Source, _by Tissaia de Vries_

_He pulled his hand away as if he had been stung, the pages falling back to their previous place with a thud that lifted a cloud of dust from the table. Looking away, he breathed in deeply and rubbed at his face with both hands. When they fell back to his sides he looked so much older than he had before._

_"Still? After all these years, everything we have, you’re still looking?” Tensing, she looked resolutely back down at the pages, her fingers once more skimming along the words as she read._

_“I don’t want to talk about this, Geralt.” She answered icily after a moment, when she realized he wouldn’t let it go on his own. “Go back to sleep, you need to be up early tomorrow morning.” Growling frustratedly, he sat down at the edge of the bed, hands balled into fists in his lap._

_“No, Yen, we need to talk about this. About how you have a family and yet you’re still hung up on this impossibility, the one ploughing thing you can’t have. You’re going to destroy yourself if you keep looking, you know. You’re going to destroy yourself, and you’re going to take everyone who loves you down with you, and then what will be left? You can be sad about it, but please, for all of our sakes, just let this go.” She didn’t turn around, still bent over the yellowed pages, but she could feel his pleading eyes boring into the back of her head._

_“God dammit.” He whispered, looking down at the ground, running his hands through the damp strands of his hair. “Explain it to me then, because I don’t understand. Why can’t you just be happy with what you have? Do you really need a child of your own, is Ciri not enough for you?”_

_Her fist connected with the desk with a bang, falling from where it had propped up her head, clenched so tightly that he could see the purple veins running beneath the paleness of her skin. The air in the room seemed suddenly to crackle with electricity, an invisible wind lifting her hair and scattering quills and paper._

_“Don’t you dare.” Her voice was low, seething, spat out between clenched teeth. “Don’t you dare question my love for Ciri, what I would do for her. I have sacrificed everything for that girl, trying to keep her safe. I have been tortured, I have been mocked, I have been assaulted, and where were you when all of this happened?” She span around to face him, her eyes glinting cruelly. “Where were you?” She screamed shrilly._

_“Oh, right.” Her mouth curled into a hard smile and her voice quieted dangerously. “You were here, in Toussaint, gallivanting with knights and fucking one of the sorceresses hunting our daughter. Tell me, did you think of Ciri, alone and in danger, even once that whole winter? I was starving to death in a cell for her while you slept on silk sheets, so you have no right to say that I don’t love her enough, that I’m not enough of a mother for her.”_

_The witcher opened his moth to speak, his face set in a pained grimace, but Yennefer silenced him with a glance._

_“You asked me to explain, so shut up and let me explain. I love Cirilla with everything in me. I would kill you, I would kill myself, I would kill the whole ploughing world to save her, but I can’t kill the emptiness inside of me. For years I wanted a child, and you gave me one, but I never got to see her grow up and now she’s a young woman and she doesn’t need a mother anymore.” She paused, drawing in a harsh breath, angrily wiping away the wetness that had appeared in the corners of her eyes._

_“Not that you would understand any of that.” Her voice was hoarse, her face distant and hardened like marble while magic crackled angrily at her curled fingertips. “After all, you’re a heartless mutant.”_

_She had expected he would jump up, that he would yell in a rage at her words, match her anger with his own. She needed it, needed the excuse to scream, because otherwise she would be sad and she didn’t know how to deal with that. But this, this was something she knew._

_Instead, he only raised an eyebrow at her, looking at her evenly, his eyes cold and unfamiliar, his voice hollow._

_“And on Thanedd, when you dragged her before the mages? Were you thinking of Ciri then, too?”_

_There was rage, the endless, gold and black swirl of a portal filling her vision as she raised her arms above her head, her hair a raven halo around the sharp angles of her face, and then there was darkness._

Triss woke with a gasp, pulling the sweat-soaked sheets closer to her chest as she tried to make sense of what she had just seen.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back with another chater! Thanks once again to Linux for reading this over for me :)  
> *I changed something small in chapter 3 to make more sense with canon: Yen made her star pendant herself, it wasn't given to her by Tissaia. That's referenced here so... ya, just so you know.

_VI_

Triss was waiting for them when Geralt and Ciri crested the hill.

The rising sun seemed to set her auburn hair on fire, a burning halo against the bleached plaster backdrop of the vineyard. Her arms were crossed in front of her chest angrily, and even from far away the stern scowl twisting her features was evident.

“Geralt,” she ground out once they were within earshot, “we need to talk.”

***   *   ***

“Explain to me how calling Yenna an insufficient mother was a trivial disagreement, witcher, because I must be missing something here.”

The sorceress sat on the guest room bed, leaning back on her slender arms with an aura of calm indifference. Her eyes, however, were like blue river stones, hard and glinting as she tracked Geralt’s pacing footsteps. His boots had been wearing the same aimless path into the floor since he had closed the door behind them.

“Quieter,” he growled, “Ciri doesn’t need to hear this.” Sighing, he pulled one hand through his hair and glanced meaningfully at the ceiling, where the young woman had returned to Yennefer’s side. Rather than responding, Triss simply raised an eyebrow, waiting for him to continue.

“I didn’t see why it was necessary to tell you what we fought about. Still don’t, in fact.” Stopping in front of her, he looked down and held her gaze challengingly. “We both know, after all, that you weren’t asking for the details leading to Yen’s disappearance out of professional curiosity or medical concern.”

Flushing, she looked away in an effort to hide the redness of her cheeks.

“Why or why not I asked what I did matters very little. What does matter is what you said to Yenna. How could you say that to her, Geralt?”

“Why do you care, Triss?” Nostrils flaring, she straightened up and looked back at him.

“Don’t forget that I was her friend long before you even knew her. Just because we haven’t talked to each other recently doesn’t mean that that history or those feelings are cancelled out. In any case, I’m the one stuck picking up the pieces from this mess that you made. You could have spared Yenna a lot of pain and me a lot of work had you only kept your mouth shut.” Eyes narrowing to slits, he seemed to tower over her.

“Do not put what they did to her on me! Don’t you dare blame me for what happened! I killed Radovid to put a stop to all this, to keep Yen and _you_ safe. Witchers don’t kill kings, Triss, but I did, I betrayed the neutrality I have always stood for, to keep my friends and family safe. Don’t tell me that a few words spoken in the heat of the moment could cancel any of that out.”

Smirking, the sorceress leaned forward and pulled him off balance, falling back onto the bed as he tumbled on top of her.

“And where were those morals,” her breath was warm and heavy against the shell of his ear, “during those months at Foltest’s court?” Grinning coyly she nipped at his earlobe before moving to unbutton his shirt, her hands trailing languorously down his shoulders and over his chest.

“No.” Catching her hands, he forced them to her sides and pushed himself off the mattress, glaring at her. “No,” he repeated when she reached for his wrist, twisting away, “is this what you call your friendship with Yen, is this what all those years you spoke of amount to?”

“Oh, please, Geralt, there’s no need to act so high and mighty, both you and Yenna have had other lovers. What’s a difference of one more? There’s no need for her to know.” Face hardening to stone, the witcher moved to open the door.

“I think you should go.” His voice was monotone, his features blank. Sighing, Triss pulled down her skirt where it had slid up her thigh and stood up, reaching into one of her pockets.

“Fine, have it your way,” Having found what she was searching for, she smiled and held it up for the witcher to see, “but I’ll be taking this with me.”

Slamming the door shut, he stalked towards her, expression stormy.

“Give that back.” He growled, reaching to grab Yennefer’s pendant from the auburn-haired sorceress’ grasp, hanging from its velvet ribbon. The diamonds glittered as she snatched her hand back, holding out the other to stop him.

“In a moment. Haven’t you always wondered what it does, why Yenna wears it? There’s a reason she was the youngest mage in the Chapter before it fell.” He followed reluctantly as she beckoned him to the window, holding the jeweled charm up to the sunlight. Light refracted in the diamonds, casting small rainbows, painter’s colours splashed across the off-white walls.

“It focuses magic, allows her to cast powerful spells. That in itself is nothing special, all mages have one.” She fingered the gold and green pearl diamond hanging over the high collar of her dress. “I’m guessing Ciri already warned you about that, as you haven’t put it back on Yenna’s neck yet. Don’t want her wildly casting spells in a moment of panic or pain.” She glanced back at Geralt, standing a foot behind her, but his scowl didn’t lessen.

“Come now, I’m not criticizing, I’m actually impressed that you thought of it. However, removing it has some side effects you probably didn’t anticipate.” Splaying the fingers of her other hand, she hovered her palm over the onyx pendant and muttered something in the Elder Speech. The diamonds flared to life as her words trailed off, shining so brilliantly that the witcher had to shield his eyes with his hand. Triss only narrowed her eyes, staring in deep concentration as the light grew then died out.

“Beautiful, isn’t it? There’s a very strong telepathic shield woven into these stones, the light was it warding off a probing signal I sent. All mages have some basic form of this, but I don’t know of anything else with a spell as strong as this one. It was the pride of Yenna’s career, developing this amulet. The diamonds need to be cut perfectly, much finer than can be observed by the human eye, so that each has a complementary resonating frequency. She spent years just devising a spell to shape gemstones, never mind the time spent aligning them and imbuing them with magic…” Trailing off, she chuckled and shook her head.

“It’s very telling of Yenna’s attitude, don’t you think, that she spent so much time and energy protecting her thoughts from other people.”

Behind her, Geralt cleared his throat, raising an eyebrow pointedly when she turned suddenly, surprised from her musings.

“Are you going to get to the point?” Though his words were still gruff, his expression had loosened and his arms were no longer crossed. When he held out his hand, she returned the pendant without prompting.

“I’m trying to explain how I know about your fight with Yenna.” Triss rolled her eyes. “Mages learn pretty quickly how to shield their thoughts from others, it becomes more of a reflex than a conscious action. But, if they’re unconscious or incapacitated, those shields drop. Spells like the one on that pendant act as a backup, for if the mage is too weak to block a telepathic probe themselves or if they let their own shields drop, whatever the reason. You took away her amulet, and given her current state, her mind is wide open to any intruders.”

The witcher’s fist closed tightly around the diamond studded pendant, imprinting onto his palm.

“So you read her mind? Has the entire reason for you coming here to help been to take advantage of her?” The sorceress scowled at him.

“Of course not, do you really have so little faith in me?” He looked pointedly at the bed, and she groaned. “That has nothing to do with this, Geralt, it’s just a little fun. Besides, whatever I feel about you or do with you has absolutely nothing to do with my care for Yenna.” The witcher smiled mockingly.

“How do you figure that?”

“I’m a sorceress, I take what I want.” She glared at him but he didn’t drop the smile. “That’s just the way we are, and Yennefer’s like that too. It has nothing to do with our friendship, it’s just a fact of life. Besides, in a few hundred years you and Ciri will most likely be dead, and it will just be me and Yenna and none of this will have mattered.” Geralt crossed his arms.

“Hmm.”

“What?”

“I always wondered how you justified it to yourself.” Huffing in frustration, Triss turned to look out the window.

“As I was saying before you so rudely interrupted me, Yennefer’s telepathic shields, so to speak, are down, and you’re holding her backup in your hand. Loosen your grip, by the way, she’ll kill you if you knock one of the stones loose.” The witcher had to make a conscious effort to unclench his hands, his palm stinging from the bite of metal and diamonds. “Better. Now when someone experiences a strong emotion, they often project their thoughts outwards. Sort of like speaking into a bull horn except, well, thinking. Telepathic shields are designed to be selectively permeable, meaning just as a signal can’t go in unless the mage allows it, a signal can’t be sent out unless the user purposefully allows it to. That’s why you don’t get a headache every time you get a sorceress excited.” She smirked at him and he scowled.

“But,” she continued, “Yenna doesn’t have any shields up right now, and she is most likely in a fair amount of pain. That and the nightmares she probably sees are more than enough to cause her to accidently project her thoughts.” Nodding, Geralt ran his hands over the stones set in the pendant, wondering absently if it would smell of Yen, of lilac and gooseberries.

“So when you saw our fight, you were picking up on one of those projections.” The thought that that memory was so painful to her to elicit a telepathic response made him clench his teeth. “But you still have your shields up, so why were you able to receive this signal?” To his surprise, Triss laughed.

“I’m flattered Geralt, truly, that you think I would be able to ward that off, though I expect it’s more because you don’t understand. I’m exhausted, and I was asleep, so my own shields were down, and the spell on this,” she lifted her amulet off her chest, “well it’s nothing compared the one on Yennefer’s pendant. I had no chance of blocking that signal.”

Sighing, the witcher rubbed at his eyes and looked at the sorceress.

“So what does this mean?” Returning his gaze, she held his cat’s eyes with her own.

“It means she’s waking up, and she’s hurting more than you can even imagine.”


	7. Chapter 7

_VII_

_She hated Novigrad with a burning passion_

_The stench of excrement and the scuttle of sewage rats juxtaposed with exotic silks and gilded baubles, the cruelty and blind hatred in the eyes of men carrying emblems of honour and valiance. The entire city was a practice in contrasts, like a birch tree rotting on the inside, the pretence of beauty and extravagance hiding the ugly truth beneath._

_Yes, she hated the place, but, when she stepped through the portal onto the plush carpets of the Chameleon, she couldn’t help but feel a certain nostalgia._

_The last time she had been here, Geralt had been by her side, laughing with Ciri over juvenile jokes in between rounds of gwent. She could remember thinking that the last time she had seen either of them so carefree had been in Ebbing, in those precious few months before Rivia and pitchforks._

_Something about her posture must have given away the gloom of her thoughts, because the witcher had taken her hand, folded in her lap, and squeezed it comfortingly. For a moment, she could see in his mind that Belleteyn so many years ago, the depth of his love lit by the light of the bonfire on furs laid out beneath foreign constellations. Smiling slightly to herself, she had leaned over to kiss him lightly on the cheek, and had thought that she would give him the world, if only he asked for it._

_And she had given him everything she had over the years, not always right away, and not always easily, but she had given it nonetheless. She had given her life for him, for Ciri, more than once, first in hunting down Vilgefortz and again when the witcher had lain dying. Even when it had been hopeless, even when he had hated her for imagined betrayals, even when his blood had run thick between her fingers and the light in his eyes had died out, she had continued to make sacrifices for their little family. And despite all that, he had had the audacity to question her commitment._

_She stood, alone in a bedroom of a brothel-turned-cabaret, viciously wrestling with his words, clamping down on her tongue to stop herself from screaming in frustration. How dare he suggest she was not a good mother to their daughter, that she didn’t appreciate the gift that she had been given, even after everything she had done for the girl? The sacrifices she had made, the nights she spent awake, worrying uselessly, how she struggled to close the instinctual distance she put between herself and others, to show her daughter that she loved her, even if she wasn’t always warm. Was that not motherhood?_

_She dedicated herself to the girl in every way she could control, she couldn’t accept that this feeling she was powerless to change negated all that._

_Shaking from anger, she strode over to the dresser, raking her fingers through the curls of her hair, trying to maintain some semblance of control with each knot she tore through, each fly-away she flattened out. Her own eyes stared back at her in the mirror, nearly indigo and glinting with accusations._

_And yet, he had had a point. For how many years had she wished for what she had now? How many times, in the more than a hundred years she’d been alive, had she convinced herself that a family of her own was impossible? So many lonely nights, lying alone or next to a stranger, thinking that if only she found someone who would love her for more than the night, if only she had a child to tuck into bed, then she would be happy._

_That was the problem with dreams and impossibilities; they reduced everything to a few simple desires, disregarding nuances and inconvenient truths. Because she had a family, she had a daughter, she had everything she had pined after for so many years, and yet the emptiness wouldn’t go away._

_Her fingers whitened as they curled tightly in her hair, stinging her scalp as she pulled at a particularly insistent knot. It wasn’t his place, planting these doubts, these insecurities in her mind. Though she had little experience with love, she was fairly certain this was not meant to be a part of it. How foolish she must be to be falling for it, to be letting him get to her. Mages did not care about the opinions of lesser men._

_And yet Geralt’s words from their fight echoed in her mind, like a beast raging at the walls of its cage. What was she doing, dragging down the people who loved her in her own selfishness? It was one thing to destroy herself, another to destroy people who didn’t deserve it. Why couldn’t she just be happy with what she had?_

_What kind of mother was she, neglecting her child for one that would never exist?_

_The words grew louder as they rebounded in her skull, tearing at her, laughing at her with the familiarity of the witcher’s toothy grin. She wanted to curl up, to clasp her hands to her ears, but the mirror held her gaze, anger and blame in swirling violet, and she just wanted it to stop._

_The diamonds of her pendant shimmered brightly and cracks spider-webbed across the mirror, creeping across her reflection until the glass shattered, silencing the noise with it but for a flutter of music notes as the pieces fell on the hard wood of the dresser. Then there was only the muffled din outside of merchant’s setting up their stalls before the morning came._

_Schooling her face into an impassive expression, she looked down dispassionately at her hand which had been resting on the dresser’s surface. Already blood welled up from a series of small abrasions where the pieces had landed, collecting in the lines of her skin. Powdered glass dusted the cuts, glittering as the first rays of sun peaked through the room’s one window._

_Suppressing a wince, she wrapped her hand in a silken handkerchief forgotten on the nightstand, watching bloody roses blossom on the cloth. Later she would fix it with a spell, but for now she lacked the energy and welcomed the pain._

_Unsure what to do, feeling only numb and tired, she stumbled to the bed and collapsed on the sheets. Closing her eyes, she decided she missed the warmth of having another body beside her._

_She was woken a few hours later by the shrill sound of a noblewoman’s scream._

***   *   ***

_“And here I was thinking I’d never get to see the great Yennefer of Vengerberg in bed.” The scraggly plume sticking out of the maroon of the man's hat seemed to wave mockingly at her as he smirked. Setting her face into a hard scowl, she stared at him evenly until, despite his bravado, his eyes glanced away._

_“Don’t worry yourself, there’s no risk of you seeing it again.” She heard her own voice, sharp and steady, as if through a tunnel, each syllable impossibly distant and muffled. Her mind was still bleary from being jerked from sleep, having had only a moment to gather herself before Dandelion had burst into the room. “Though I must say, for your first time, you seem to have prepared yourself remarkably well for the situation.” Cheeks turning the same shade as his frock, the bard hesitantly lowered the fire poker he had been brandishing above his head._

_“Right, yes, well…” Seeing her raise an eyebrow at his stammering, the bard drew himself up in a gesture of what he must have thought was defiance. “When I heard a fair lady screaming, what was I to do if not come to her aid, ill-equipped though I was? Chivalry might be waning here in Novigrad, but it is my duty to be sure it's not dead.”_

_“This fair lady of yours was not in her room earlier because she had spent the night with one of your other, married tenants next door. I thought shining knights such as yourself only protected honest virgins. What would dear Priscilla say, if she knew you had come here to offer your valiant services to another maid?” She knew that her words were unfairly scathing, that having broken into his inn, destroyed his mirror, and scared his customers her insults were more than unwarranted, especially as he was one of Geralt’s close friends, but she couldn’t help herself._

_The argument of the previous night still weighed heavily on her mind, sapping her energy and fouling her mood, and her injured hand was stinging incessantly, the soiled cloth of the handkerchief pulling uncomfortable at the newly-formed scabs on her hand. She was still in her night slip, having neglected to change before leaving Corvo Bianco, and without her normal armor of makeup and ornate gowns she felt horribly vulnerable. Anger bubbled underneath her skin, anger at herself for her failures, anger at her own powerlessness, and it was so much easier to direct it at the bard than to face it herself._

_“My Callonetta knows I could never be unfaithful; my love and my honour bind me to her.” Eyes narrowing when the sorceress rolled her eyes, the bard smiled at her. “Not that you would understand such things. Is that why Geralt isn’t here with you?”_

_“Yes, Dandelion, I came to your second-rate cabaret to cheat on Geralt with a random stranger.” Her tone was biting as she struggled to maintain an impervious façade. She may not have been the most faithful in the past, but neither had the witcher. The bard couldn’t be expected to understand such complicated things, she told herself, he couldn’t be expected to grasp the various shades of grey in her love for Geralt. Nonetheless, he must surely know that she would never do that, not anymore. Was her love truly worth so little?_

_“Then why are you here?” He watched her ignorantly, fire poker hanging in one hand, as she opened her mouth to launch a fiery retort, but the words didn’t come out. How did she explain that it hadn’t been a conscious decision, that when she had opened that portal she had only been thinking of what it would be like to go back to that peace, that rightness, that had been those first few weeks after the Wild Hunt and the White Frost. She had been angry, and she had been tired, and unconsciously she had travelled here, back to her memories of laughing and playing cards._

_But such an explanation wouldn’t have made any sense to Dandelion, who didn’t believe she possessed anything other than selfishness and jealousy, so she shut her mouth, and the bard smirked triumphantly._

_“That’s what I thought. I warned Geralt, you know. Geralt, I said, there’s no need to torture yourself with that sorceress any longer. She doesn’t deserve you. And wouldn’t you know it, I was right.”_

_She had long ago vowed that she would never agree with the bard to his face, so she stalked past him and out onto the crowded street._

_“Hey!” His high-pitched voice carried over the hustle and bustle, but she didn’t turned around. “Aren’t you going to pay for that mirror?”_

_She continued her brisk pace until the Chameleon was well out of sight, making her way to the walkway along the main canal. On the other bank, the fish market was in full swing, hawkers yelling out their wares into the dirty air. The stench of a tanner’s workshop scoured her nostrils, reminding her of the run-down shack in Vengerberg where she had grown up._

_Shaking her head, she clenched her injured hand, using the pain of the wet scabs tearing to distract herself. She didn’t want to think about that shack._

_A heavy hand grasped at her upper arm as she passed by Crippled Kate’s, bruising her skin as it squeezed tightly, stopping her from walking any farther. The grizzled mug of a skelligan warrior leered at her when she whipped around, standing over a foot above her as he breathed whiskey-laden breath into her face._

_“What’s a pretty lass like you doing here, eh? Looking for some fun?” Brow furrowing, she tried to tug her arm free, but his grip only hardened._

_“Let go of me.” She ground out, her voice menacing, but the man’s grin only widened. When she threw a punch at him with her other arm, he caught it easily._

_“Oh, we got a fierce one here,” he crowed, spittle flying from his lips to get caught in his beard, “don’t you worry your pretty little head,” leaning forward, he lowered his voice conspiratorially, “I’ll pay you well for your troubles.”_

_The force that flew from her outstretched hand flung him back into one of the supports for a stall’s awning, the timber splintering with an ear-splitting crack. A cloud of dust was disturbed from the walkway as the broken wood crashed to the ground, irritating her throat, but she resisted the urge to cough, staring fiercely at her accoster. Groaning, the drunken man tried to push himself to his feet, his legs collapsing under him as his eyes swayed back and forth in his skull. Blood was streaming from his nose, spotting the ground._

_“I said let go of me, you idiot.” After spending the night dealing with her own insecurities and short-comings, the surge of adrenaline as magic crackled at her fingertips was thrilling. Lips spreading into a wide smile, she laughed as his arms struggled to push himself up, but then he lifted his head glare at her and her grin faded._

_For a brief moment, he had had her father’s eyes._

_Snarling, she snapped the other wooden support with a flick of her wrist, watching the canvas of the broken awning fall over the drunk like a tattered cape before turning and making her way through the gathered crowd, which parted fearfully to let her pass. She paid no attention to the little boy who ran across the canal towards Hierarch Square._

_She finally ended up in the back corner of a seedy tavern on the Novigrad docks, deep in the cup of her sixth tankard of ale. Being only the early afternoon, the gloomy establishment was empty but for the innkeeper and a couple dirty-mouthed sailors who had just come in after months at sea. With the way the world seemed to tilt and sway, she wasn’t fully convinced herself that they weren’t still on a boat._

_Lifting a splinter in the once-varnished side of the beaten mug with a fingernail, she mused on the idea of buying passage on the next ship to land in the port. Where it was going didn’t really much matter, she thought, so long as it was away from here, away from the mess she had made._

_She could almost see Geralt sitting opposite from her at the table, ghostly fingers reaching for his own tankard and taking a long pull from it._

_“It will be better if I go.” She murmured, knowing he was an apparition but still feeling the need to explain. “Right now I’m just hurting you, and I’m hurting Ciri. It’s my job to protect you both, but I’m just making everything worse, aren’t I?” The illusion didn’t respond, simply staring at the well beyond her left shoulder, but she was able to fill in the gaps on her own._

_“Yes, it will be better this way. Maybe I’ll go to Ofier, it’s supposed to be beautiful there, you know. And nobody knows about the Lodge, or me, or what I’ve done there, it can be a fresh start.” Pausing, she took another drink, dabbing the foam from her upper lip with a ragged cloth napkin. “I’m tired, Geralt, you know? I’m just tired of all my mistakes. Maybe we’ll get lucky, and the boat will sink, and you’ll never have to see me again. Triss will be a good mother to Ciri, she already loves her like a big sister. And you can be happy with her, no more incessant fighting.”_

_The world spun around her as she let her forehead fall to the heel of her hand, watching the apparition of Geralt waver in the candlelight. She didn’t notice the figures approaching in the background, the sound of chairs hitting the floor as the sailors fled and the innkeeper hid behind the bar._

_“You should know though, Geralt,” her voice was slurred, her eyelids drooping, and the shadows drew nearer, “you should know that I do love you. You and our daughter. I’m just sorry-“ She stumbled over her words, ale sloshing over the side of cup as she tipped it forward and took another drink, “I’m sorry it wasn’t enough.”_

_She only heard the words a few seconds after they left her mouth, the fuzziness induced by the alcohol delaying the sound, and she laughed at herself when she processed what she had said. If there was anything more pathetic than a crying sorceress, it was the self-pitying idiot she was now. She was becoming overly indulgent, it seemed, letting herself steep in the gloom and fatalism she had always chided the witcher for. For all his outward gruffness, he could be fairly sensitive, and recalling the emptiness in his eyes when she had spat those final words, she expected he would be brooding himself right now. Perhaps, she thought, she would swallow her pride and apologize to him once she sobered up. He had only said what he had out of a misguided concern for her, after all._

_Calloused hands reached forward, piercing through the illusion and making the witcher dissolve into the heavy air of the tavern. She barely had a chance to notice the redanian eagle and broken lines of the witch hunter crest before her head was bashed against the wall and the world went dark._

Yennefer of Vengerberg opened her eyes for the first time in days, screaming into the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys liked it, and we'll actually get non-dream/memory interactions with Yen next chapter which will be fun. However, next wednesday I have a huge exam, so I am going to put off chapter 8 to two weeks from now, sorry :/


	8. Chapter 8

_VIII_

Geralt wasn’t there when Yennefer woke up.

He had sat by her side for the rest of the day after his conversation with Triss, silent and brooding in his hard wooden chair. Ciri had tried to talk to him once or twice, but nothing she said elicited anything more than a nod or a shake of his head, so eventually she gave up and they sat together in the quiet. Having lived in Kaer Morhen for the better part of a year, she was used to silence, found a certain nostalgic comfort in it even, but this, whatever it was that hung in the air between them, this she found suffocating.

It didn’t help that the witcher refused to look her in the eye. There was a newfound tension in his shoulders, a drawn quality to his face that hadn’t been there the night before, and the few times his eyes flitted up from his lap, she thought she could see guilt in them.

The sight made her feel sick, thoughts of what he might have done to put that look on his face running through her head. Though she liked to pretend otherwise, she knew about his history with the auburn-haired sorceress, remembered how Triss had looked at him even when she was still a little girl, even before he had lost his memory. Though she knew that he wouldn’t do that to Yennefer, that even in the past he had never knowingly betrayed her when they were together, a part of her mind still kept returning to what might have happened in that bedroom to put that look on his face.

Watching him fiddle with her mother’s pendant assuaged those worries somewhat. His calloused hands absent-mindedly ran along the edges of the metal disk as he stared at nothing, leaving indents in the pads of his fingers as he traced the shape of the star, gently passing over the inlaid diamonds with a sort of reverence. She didn’t know when he had taken it from the nightstand, but he hadn’t put it down since he had taken his place by the bed, the velvet collar woven tightly between his fingers and around his wrist like a lifeline.

To Ciri, it was unspoken proof that he loved Yennefer, that he treasured the life they had now, too much to betray her like that.

There was an unsettling haziness to the gold of his eyes, a curtain she didn’t recognize, and when he sighed and pressed his lips mutely to the star in his hand, the glint of the sun made it look like unshed tears.

Geralt’s melancholy made the whole scene feel like a funeral procession, and the implications of that made her throat constrict and her eyes sting.

In the late afternoon, Triss had come up to see them. Besides when she redressed Yennefer’s wounds and checked for signs of infection, the sorceress never climbed the stairs to the master bedroom to visit her old friend. Ciri suspected she was all to aware of how the injured woman would feel about her being here.

The creaking of the floorboards had heralded her coming, and both Geralt and Ciri were watching the door when she walked in, looking uncharacteristically dishevelled.

“I just woke up from a nap,” She explained curtly at their surprised glances, “this damned heat is making me dreadfully drowsy. Geralt, could I speak to you for a moment?” There was something nervously hurried about her words, and the ashen-haired woman noticed that she was wringing her hands restlessly.

Grunting, the witcher got to his feet and followed Triss out the door, and Ciri heard only muffled mentions of another dream before the sound of a door closing and their voices faded out. Irritated, she turned back to glance at Yennefer and wondered when they would realize that she was no longer a child, that she deserved to know what was going on. She didn’t need to be protected from reality anymore, sheltered from hard truths by hushed voices.

Yet Geralt, she knew, still saw her as the small witcher girl shaking from her nightmares of knights with winged helms. It was easier, she supposed, than acknowledging all the horrors that had happened since.

The witcher didn’t come back upstairs after his conversation with Triss, instead slipping out the door into the fresh air. Ciri could see him from the open window of the bedroom, sitting in the lounge chair behind the house, elbows on his knees and his head bowed as he stared distantly at the amulet in his hands.

She hadn’t meant to fall asleep. Since they had rescued Yennefer, she and Geralt had taken turns staying awake at night in case anything changed with the injured woman, but the witcher wasn’t there to stop her eyes from drooping or distract her from her exhaustion. Eyes closed, lying besides the raven-haired sorceress with the smell of lilac and gooseberries wafting from the lit candle on the windowsill, she was brought back to her time at the temple of Melitele, to the simplicity of those months in Ellander.

During the day Yennefer had seemed impossibly cold, imperious and frightening behind her mask of beauty and sarcasm, but when the sun fell and Ciri had climbed into her bed, woken by a dream or a sound in the night, she had always been so soft, wrapping her arms around the little girl comfortingly.

The witcheress could count on one hand the times she had seen the sorceress look openly, vulnerably loving, and they were all basked in moonlight.

Lulled to sleep by the comfort of far away memories, pressed against her mother’s side, she didn’t notice when a slight breeze drifting in blew the candle out, nor how clouds blowing in covered the moon in an overcast sky, the room falling into the deafening darkness of deep night. That scream, however, was one she was all too familiar with, and it shook her awake in an instant.

At first she thought that the dreams from years ago had come back, Yennefer with her mangled hands, blood echoing as it dripped onto flagstones. Then she felt the covers lift as the woman beside her struggled frantically to sit up, and she was pulled back to reality.

Bolting up, she instinctively put her hands out to stop the sorceress from pulling herself into a sitting position, worried that she would hurt herself in her panic, tearing the stitches that Triss had painstakingly sewn. As soon as her hands touched the injured woman she flinched back as though she had been scalded, nearly falling off the edge of the bed as she whirled around, eyes glittering ferally.

“Get off of me you whoreson!” Her words tore through the night, shrill and just barely shaking. She pushed against Ciri’s hands, trying to throw her off, but injury and malnutrition had made her weak and the ashen-haired woman’s grip didn’t even budge. “I said get off!”

“Mama…” Voice thick, she struggled to push the words out over her rising panic as she realized she didn’t know what to do, how to calm her down. “Mama, it’s me, it’s Ciri. You’re home, you’re safe.” She wondered if Geralt was still outside, hoped he had heard the screaming and would burst into the room to fix this, because she didn’t know what to do. It had always been Yennefer comforting her, and she found herself feeling paralysed, unsure what to say now that the roles were reversed.

The sorceress paused at her words, stilling so suddenly that the other woman nearly fell forwards now that she had nothing to fight back against. Trembling, she lifted a thin hand to her daughter’s face, the movement so uncharacteristically tentative, timid, that the entire situation seemed almost surreal.

“Ciri?” The name escaped her lips softly, tenderly, spoken in a barely there breath as she ran her fingers over her daughter’s features, following the deep groove of the scar that cut across her cheek. Though she could barely make anything out in the darkness, the witcheress could tell how she frowned as her fingertips brushed the tears that had unwittingly escaped down the young woman’s face. “Why are you crying, my ugly duckling? What are you doing here, you’re supposed to be on the Path.”

She watched helplessly as the tension returned to Yennefer in an instant, sudden fear thrumming through her slight frame as she tried to sit herself up with renewed vigor, breaking the moment of calm that had settled. Even in the darkness, there was a panic visible in her features that Ciri couldn’t remember seeing before.

“Ciri, what are you doing here? You’re not supposed to be here, you’re supposed to be safe.” Eyes darting back and forth, trying to take in what was around her, she grasped at the ashen-haired girl’s wrist, grip so tight it was painful, as she spoke in a hoarse whisper. “No, no, no, you can’t be here, you need to be safe. Stop crying girl, you have to go, quickly now, before they come back. You can’t stay here.” The whites around her violet eyes flashed, filled with desperation, and Ciri tried to catch the hands wrapped around her wrists with her own, trying to get the sorceress’ attention.

“Mother, no, I’m fine you’re fine! Just give me a moment, I’ll go light a candle and then you’ll see-“ She yelped when Yennefer’s grasp turned bruising as she tried to get off the bed, and at the sudden sound the older woman’s hand clamped over her mouth angrily.

“Quiet!” She hissed fearfully, “You can’t let them hear you. You have to go Cirilla, leave, get far away from here. Find Geralt, he’ll know how to get them off your trail, or go to another world and lay low for awhile, it doesn’t matter what you do, but you can’t stay here! They’ll hurt you Ciri, do you understand? They’ll hurt you more than you can ever imagine, and then they’ll laugh at your pain, and I won’t be able to help you, so you need to go!”

“But Mama-“

“Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon.” The sorceress’ voice was like thunder, cracking down as she pulled her daughter so tightly to her that their faces were inches apart. Her violet eyes seemed strangely foreign as they flamed with impatience and she gritted her teeth. “Do you remember what I made you promise me when we first met? I made you promise that you would do as I say, and now is not the time to break that promise. Now GO!”

Even though she was weak, even without her pendant to focus the energy, the force that flew from her splayed hands and threw Ciri out of the bed was surprisingly powerful, sending the young woman crashing into the wooden wardrobe standing against the wall. The polished wood doors snapped with an ear-splitting crack on impact, sending splinters flying, and the witcheress groaned as she hit the backboard, cushioned though it was by the black and white of hanging dresses. She landed on her hands and knees wheezing as she tried to restore the breath knocked out of her.

The bedroom door burst open with a slam, a stream of fire lighting the hearth by the entrance and revealing Geralt, one hand bunched in a fist, the other still held forward in the sign of Igni. Yennefer blinked furiously, blinded by the sudden light, but she still jumped out of the bed to stand between her incapacitated daughter and the new figure, the air around her crackling.

“Stay away from my daughter!” Having spent so long in darkness, the light stabbed at her eyes, making it impossible to make out the figure in front of her. The pain was making her eyes water, and she steeled herself to try to stop from swaying as her legs threatened to collapse under her.

“Yen, stop!” Holding one hand outstretched, he made an obvious effort to unclench his fist, splaying them both to show he was empty handed. “Calm down, it’s just me, you’re safe.”

“Oh, good, Geralt, it’s you.” Relaxing somewhat, she leaned against the bed for support and shielded her eyes from the light with one hand. “You need to get Ciri out of here, it’s not safe. They’ll hurt her if they find her.” When he didn’t move, she clenched her hands and tried to push herself back up, but she couldn’t muster the strength. “Now, witcher! Why are you just standing there like a fool? Get the girl out of here!”

“Yen…” Tone gentle, he carefully picked his way through the splintered remnants of the wardrobe doors, walking towards her slowly, arms raised, as though approaching a wild beast. “Yen, look around you, we’re in Toussaint, you’re home. They’re not here, they can’t hurt you, they can’t hurt Ciri, I promise.”

Glancing around warily, the sorceress began to shake, eyes narrowing as she tried with difficulty to focus on the room around her. Her legs collapsed, and she sat down heavily on the bed, one arm unconsciously going across her midriff where bloody roses had begun to blossom beneath the white of her shift.

“But Ciri…” Shaking her head, she glanced at her daughter, sat on the floor breathing heavily, before looking back plaintively at the witcher, “You need to get Ciri out of here Geralt, you need to make sure she’s safe.” Her breathing sped up, her chest rising and falling rapidly with each inhale and exhale. “She needs to be safe, you have to keep her safe.”

“Okay, calm down, I’ll make sure she’s safe.” Never taking his eyes off Yennefer, he moved to help Ciri to her feet, pulling her up with one strong arm and whispering something in her ear before gesturing to the open door. The ashen-haired girl nodded tentatively, the firelight making the tear stains on her cheeks glisten, before smiling weakly in an attempt to reassure her mother and leaving.

“There, she’s safe now, yeah?” Moving slowly towards her, he smiled tiredly when the sorceress relaxed, the tension leaving her shoulders as she leaned back in the bed. Walking over to the nightstand, he pulled fresh bandages and a needle and thread from the drawer, gesturing at the bloodstain slowly spreading across her side. “Now how about I take care of that?”

“I don’t need taking care of, witcher.” She mumbled, but she let him lift her shift to take a look at the newly opened wound. Geralt only grunted in response before leaving to get a sponge and a basin of water.

He worked in silence, ignoring the way Yennefer flinched whenever he reached towards her, gently sponging away the drying blood before removing the old sutures and carefully redoing them. After awhile, the sorceress seemed to calm down, and she closed her eyes, humming appreciatively when his cool fingers brushed against her painful skin. Heat was emanating from her in waves, and the witcher made a mental note to tell Triss that the fever had spiked again.

“You know, Geralt,” her voice broke the silence when he was about halfway finished with the stitches, oddly melodic though it was hoarse from disuse, “if you scorched the floorboard when you made that grand entrance of yours, you better pay for that to get fixed by the time I’m better. Who knows what I’ll do to you otherwise.” Chuckling softly, more an exhale than a laugh, the witcher pressed his lips gently to her shoulder before finishing his work.

When she finally fell asleep again, he was holding her. For her sake he ignored the tears on her cheeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There you go, hope you liked it. I've officially finished the school year, so updates should be regular again after this!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok I'm back. I'm so sorry about last week, I know I said I would post but I had just started a new job and my depressions kicking back up and I couldn't get myself together. I am honestly going to try for once a week as usual, but every once in awhile I may just skip a week if I just can't do it.
> 
> With that cleared up, hope you enjoy! I know there's a lot of Triss in this story seeing as it's Geralt/Yen, but I brought her into the story, so now I have to do her justice and start tying up other things I brought up surrounding her.

_IX_

No matter how vigorously she scrubbed, Triss Merigold couldn’t shake the feeling of cockroaches scuttling under her skin.

The normally immaculate skin of her arms was raw and angry as she dragged the abrasive sponge over her body, the lye in the soap stinging as it mixed with the water in the tub and cascaded over her. She ignored the pain resolutely, her motions determined as she tried unsuccessfully to rid herself of this feeling of uncleanliness overwhelming her. It wasn’t terribly difficult to push it to the side, reduced as the stinging was to background noise by the guilt swirling in her head and the bitter taste sitting on her tongue.

The sense of disgust had crept up on her shortly after her first dream of Yennefer, initially dawning over her slowly as an uneasy feeling that she steadfastly refused to acknowledge. After her second unwitting glimpse into the other sorceress’ thoughts, however, it had crashed down on her like a tidal wave.

She had been curt when she’d taken Geralt aside that afternoon to explain what she’d seen, perhaps thoughtlessly so, but she couldn’t help it. She felt dirty, wrong, a heavy weight in her stomach and a tickle at the back of her throat like something was trying to crawl its way up. She didn’t have the energy nor focus to gentle her words, to censor the minor details of Yenna’s thoughts that she knew Geralt would take as placing the blame squarely on his shoulders.

She would be lying if she didn’t admit she was having doubts herself on that matter, thinking how the raven-haired woman’s fixation on the witcher’s words had allowed her to be taken by surprise. Though she tried not to, her mind kept returning to the side of her former friend that she’d seen in that memory. The weakness, the lack of confidence, the resignation, they all seemed to be the antithesis of the woman she knew.

A part of her blamed Geralt for the uncharacteristic vulnerability that had consumed Yenna, as though his words from their argument, spoken thoughtlessly, could have forced that weakness upon her. A larger part of her knew that that blame was a choice she had made, and not a reflection of reality.

And there lay the crux of the problem, the reason Triss couldn’t shake the sensation of being unclean, the reason she had been scrubbing furiously at her skin for the last hour.

She could remember once, years ago, shortly after she had first met Yenna, watching the older sorceress needlessly checking and strengthening the spells on her pendant. It was a habit the younger woman had noticed fairly quickly, the way she would obsessively tend to those glittering diamonds and the magic imbued within whenever she was nervous or idle, or just before falling asleep. Though she never mentioned it, Triss was fairly certain that Tissaia de Vries had passed down more than her knowledge onto her pupil.

For all she was said to be naïve, she had known better than to ask Yenna what she was protecting herself from. Her silence had been a condition of their forming friendship, she had understood that even then.

She had been there when a brash young knight attempting to strike up a conversation with her to win her affections had asked the sorceress why she was constantly fiddling with the pendant. Though her violet eyes had turned hard as flint behind their curtain of ebony curls, she had nonetheless maintained an expression of civility as she answered, her displeasure marked only by the thin line of her pressed lips.

“Not all of us are so willing,” she had said with icy amusement, “to make fools of ourselves in plate.”

It wasn’t until Sodden that Triss fully understood what she had been saying.

Unconsciously, the auburn-haired woman paused in her scrubbing to lift one hand to her chest, her manicured nails trailing lightly over the scarred and twisted flesh, running up to trail mindlessly along the seam of her collarbone, where the deformed surface faded once more into smooth skin. She was grateful that she had remembered to cover the mirror across the room before undressing; she could never bear to look at the ghosts of those burns.

Sighing softly, she lifted herself from the cooling water of the tub, wrapping a clean towel around her midsection and tying it beneath one arm. Grabbing the polished bone handle of her brush, she sat at the foot of the guest bed and pulled her hair over her shoulder, teasing at the long ends while her mind drifted elsewhere. The warm light of the lit candle on the nightstand seemed to set the strands on fire.

 There were few things that Yenna held more sacred than the privacy of her own mind. It wasn’t difficult to see why; though the sorceress did not speak of her past, Triss had seen the lines on her wrist, she knew that it had not been a happy one.

After all, steel is tempered in fire.

Yennefer had made it her life’s work to shroud herself in ice, to set her brow in stone, make herself inscrutable to the rest of the world. That was the way of mages, that was what she had been taught in Aretuza. Vulnerability was not a mistake that one made twice.

And yet, Triss had seen that side her in her dreams, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that it was somehow an invasion, a betrayal. As though she had taken advantage of her friend’s weakness to spy on what she kept hidden, and the thought made her feel sick.

Worse was the comfort that seeing this side of Yenna brought her. The older woman had always struck her as being somehow more than human, some paradigm of perfection that Triss herself could never live up to. Her surety, her seeming infallibility, there was some relief in knowing for certain that they were just masks, that, like everyone else, she had her doubts, her fears.

Aware of how selfish the sentiment was, the auburn-haired woman thought that Yenna might even approve. Such, after all, is the nature of sorceresses.

She struggled with that same selfishness later that night as she prepared to go to sleep. Seated on one side of the guest bed, she twirled her lapis lazuli hairpin between her fingers, the candlelight reflecting warmly on the silver outlines of the flower petals.

It would not take much effort to charm the inset stones to ward off any future dreams, being mostly only a matter of casting a couple small spells on the already activated gemstones. Yenna had designed the wards already on the decorative flower as a gift several decades ago, and Triss was fairly certain that with her modifications they would be able to ward off whatever the injured sorceress inadvertently projected.

These dreams, after all, were not directed at her in particular. She needed only to deflect them.

It wasn’t any potential difficulty that held her back from doing so. The whole process would be fairly quick, if draining, but then she would have the night to recover, and she would no longer have the dreams. She could rid herself of the guilt, the feeling of betrayal, could pretend that had never seen what she had. She could go back to her peaceful nights, escape before being forced to see what the witch hunters had done to her friend, before the memories of Menge, of that suffocating room by his office, had a chance to resurface.

She would be leaving Yenna alone to relive these memories herself.

Triss fell asleep trying to decide what to do.

***   *   ***

A crash above her head startled the sorceress awake.

The lapis lazuli flower was still clutched in her hand, having dug grooves into her fingers and palm. Blinking to rid the last remnants of sleep from her eyes, she could hear Geralt’s gruff voice through the ceiling, a note of apprehension in it. Carefully placing the hairpin down on the nightstand, she checked that her pendant on its chain was in its place around her neck before smoothing out her night slip and quietly opening her bedroom door.

The silence of deep night sat heavy on the house as she came into the main room, broken only by a small flame that she had conjured into the palm of her hand to pick her way to the staircase. The witcher’s voice seemed to have calmed somewhat upstairs, and there was another voice, a barely audible murmur, tinged with desperation, too hoarse to be Ciri’s.

Yenna was awake.

Triss paused at the foot of the staircase, knowing she should go and check on the injured woman but finding herself too nervous. The sorceress would be unhappy enough that she was here to begin with, but if she found out about her inadvertent glimpses into her head, she would be absolutely furious. Unsure if Geralt would tell Yennefer about the advances she had made on him as well, she wracked her mind for an excuse not to check on the injured woman.

It came in the form of Ciri, footsteps heavy as she trudged down the steps moments later, looking decidedly worse for the wear. Her ashen hair a mess, Triss could see beads of blood forming on her arms and cheek, peppered with splinters. Seeing the auburn-haired woman frown in concern, the witcheress did her best to muster up a small smile, but it fell flat.

Taking the girls thin arm, the sorceress led her back to the guest room she had just come from, lighting candles with a flick of her wrist as she seated the girl at the edge of the bed.

“What happened?” She asked quietly, but the girl only pressed her lips together and shook her head, blinking back tears.

The next few minutes passed in silence, Triss using alternately a sewing needle and magic to ensure that the splinters didn’t break apart as she took them out. She would sporadically pass one hand over the area she had just worked on, sending a warm pulse of energy to disinfect and close up the damaged skin.

She watched Ciri as she worked, glancing at her from the corner of her eye, letting herself imagine for the first time in awhile a world where this vineyard was her home, the witcher girl her daughter. Geralt would be upstairs, she thought, waiting for her to come to bed after she had finished taking care of the young woman. She would kiss her child goodnight, wait until she had fallen asleep going back upstairs. She would sleep in the witcher’s arms, lying pressed against his chest, and despite the Toussaint heat she would never be too hot, she would never need to leave his embrace.

“She thought she was still in Deireadh.”

Ciri’s voice pulled the sorceress back from her fantasy, bowing her head and pretending to inspect a particular splinter to hide the flush of embarrassment that had risen in her cheeks. The ashen-haired woman didn’t even seem to notice, intent on tracing the patterns stitched into the bedspread with her eyes.

“She woke up, and it was dark. She doesn’t like the dark, I should never have let the candle go out, but I wasn’t paying attention, I fell asleep. She woke up and she though I was one of _them_ , Triss. She thought I was going to hurt her.” The girl breathed in harshly, breath shuddering through her. “And when she realized it was me, I – I’ve never seen her look scared before, not like that.”

Falling silent, she wiped her nose on the collar of her night gown, and the auburn-haired sorceress found herself thinking that if Yennefer had been here, she would have berated her for it.

“She threw me into the dresser.” Ciri huffed, an almost laugh, pointing to where Triss was pulling splinters from her arm. “I don’t think she meant to, not really, but she wanted me to leave so badly. She thought that I was trapped there too, you know, in that cell with her, and she wouldn’t listen to anything I said, and then she threw out her hand, and-“

Voice falling to a whisper, the young woman looked to the opposite wall, hiding her face.

“I’ve never been scared of her, you know, not really. In Ellander, I trusted Geralt too much for him to send someone who would hurt me, and then once we became closer I knew she would never. She could be harsh, she could be severe, but when her eyes flashed and she held out her hands like that, it made me feel safe, you know? Because she would be protecting me. But back there, when I felt her magic hit me, when I was flying across the room, I…” Pausing, she took a deep breath. “I was afraid of her.”

Ciri laughed harshly, looking back down at the quilt, focusing intently on the stitched patterns.

“My mother was there in front of me, terrified and in pain, she needed my help, and all I could do was stare, terrified of her, of what she would do to me.” Hands balling into fists, she punched frustratedly at the mattress. “She was trying to save me, and yet in that moment all I could think about was _me_ , what she was going to do to _me_. What kind of daughter am I, if my mother is hurting and all I can think about is myself?”

“Yennefer’s.” She looked up in surprise when Triss spoke, “You’re Yennefer’s daughter.” There was a tone of sadness to the sorceress’ words, as though she were mourning something lost, but Ciri wasn’t paying close enough attention to take note of it.

She let the young woman sleep in her bed that night, choosing to try to sleep in the winged armchair by the window so the girl could sleep in peace. The lapis lazuli flower was once more in her hand, fingers dancing over silver and gemstones.

In her mind she could see her last conversation with Yenna before she had gone after Vilgefortz, the raven-haired sorceress standing before the lodge, asking for her name to be redeemed, begging for her witcher’s life, before she went to her death. Triss remembered that moment all too vividly, watching the normally proud woman plead, doing nothing.

_“Forgive me.”_

_“Oh no, Triss. Never.”_

Making her decision, she placed the hairpin on the nearby dresser, unchanged. She wouldn’t abandon her friend to fend for herself, not twice.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry I skipped a week again, all I can say is that depression sucks :/

_X_

Though Yen had fallen back asleep some hours before, Geralt found himself unable to close his eyes, mind filled with anxious thoughts of her waking again, of her waking alone. The candle on the nightstand was once more lit, casting shadows on the sharp angles of her face, further accentuated by illness and starvation such that her profile was so sharp it seemed he could cut his finger on her cheekbone.

Injured and unkempt though she was, there was nonetheless an ethereal beauty to her that made the witcher’s breath catch in his throat. Dark curls fell over her face, half-pressed into his bare shoulder such that each soft exhale tickled at his skin. His sensitive ears could pick up a small rattle each time she inhaled, an almost-wheeze as though each breath was painful, and the candlelight danced across the smattering of bruises marring the pale skin of her throat, fingerprints painted in hues of deep blue and purple. Watching them undulate under the flickering light, he couldn’t help but feel as though they were mocking him, proof of how he had failed her.

The quilted covers were pulled over her shoulders, trying to keep the sorceress warm as her fever burned and she shivered despite the warmth of the night. One hand was half-curled around his wrist, fingers resting delicately on his pulse point, and the way her pinky didn’t quite manage to curl fully and her index finger was crooked slightly too far to the left made his heart clench.

A sorceress’ hands, he knew, were as important to them as a silver sword to a witcher. Without full range of motion, she wouldn’t be able to cast many of even the most simple of spells, and he was certain Yennefer would find that more devastating than any other pain or humiliation the witch hunters might have put her through.

After Vilgefortz, her hands had been the one thing she absolutely refused to talk about.

Not that she was particularly open about anything to begin with, but in Ebbing, partly defanged by the relief of having been reunited with Geralt and their daughter, by the almost-euphoria she would never admit to having felt at having a family of her own, she would sometimes let details of her imprisonment slip. Always spoken of flippantly, always under cover of darkness, she would sometimes let loose glimpses of what had happened to her in offhand remarks.

But she never mentioned her hands, the mess that had been made of them after months of torture. On the steps of Stygga castle, after the Nilfgaardian garrison had left, she had refused to let the witcher look at them, pulling away angrily when he tried to wrap them in a swath of cloth torn from his tunic. He had mentioned cobbling together a makeshift splint only once, after which she had nearly scorched him with an errant fireball and didn’t speak to him for two days. The message had been clear; there would be no mention of her mangled fingers, nor of the resultant consequences, on pain of death.

In that sense, perhaps she had betrayed more of her feelings on her possibly crippled hands than anything else that had happened. Anger and aggression, after all, were the only ways she knew how to deal with fear.

And Geralt, despite his closeted emotions and muted empathy, could understand all too well why these injuries scared the sorceress so much. Though they had never spoken of her past, he had long ago guessed that it had not been an easy one. The Northern Realms were a harsh place, one where deformed, mixed blood girls had little place and even less power. Magic, he guessed, was how Yen distinguished and distanced herself from who she used to be. To lose that…

It would kill her.

With higher magic her fingers had healed quite well, and after the Isle of Avalon and the Wild Hunt, after Eredin had returned her to their world, her hands had seemed almost completely restored even to Geralt’s keen eye. On Skellige, retracing Ciri’s steps using the Mask of Uroboros, he could only just make out how the cold stiffened the joints of her fingers, how she winced ever so slightly from the arthritic pain every time she had to cast a spell, but she never mentioned it, and so neither had he.

There was nothing to be done for it anyway. The past is the past, and even magic has its limits.

He highly doubted the witch hunters in Deireadh had known any of this when they had chosen to snap her fingers. In fact, he highly doubted they had known exactly who they had captured in one of their cells. Since the hierarch of Novigrad had taken over the order it had become increasingly fanatical, losing the organisation and control of the martial institution it had been before. Targeted witch hunts had been replaced with more clandestine operations, jumping on any rumour of the supernatural, regardless of its validity. Even with her distinguished features, it was highly improbably that her captors would have known enough to recognize her as the great Yennefer of Vengerberg, even more so that they would have known of her past injuries.

No, it was simply standard torture. Easy and painful bones to break without threatening to hit any major arteries, causing the victim bleed to death. Geralt had used the method more than once himself, he could attest to how effective it was.

Not that it would have worked on Yennefer; the sorceress had proven that once already. The breaks had been fairly clean, enough so that Triss was more or less able to stitch the bone back together herself, mere trivialities compared to what Vilgefortz had done. The extra build-up of calcification and scar tissue on the joints due to the repeated trauma, however, was a more serious issue.

Best case scenario, it would take her weeks to regain full motion of her fingers, if she managed to at all. Geralt was not looking forward to telling her that.

Exhaling roughly, he closed his eyes and pressed his mouth to the crown of her head, burying his face in her mess of jet-black curls. The scent of lilac and gooseberries was still unnervingly absent but for what faint waft drifted from the nearby candle, but beneath that he could still detect the distinct mix of ozone and petrichor that belonged only to Yennefer, that didn’t come from any glass perfume bottle, and he breathed it in deeply. It comforted him, reminding him that she was still there even when he couldn’t see her, even when he couldn’t smell her signature perfume.

“I’m so sorry, Yen.” The words came out rough and with difficulty, low and muffled by the mess of her hair. “I’m sorry for what I said, I know that you love Ciri, that you would give her anything, that you have given her everything.” The witcher chuckled dryly, bitterly, at that.

“We both have, time and again. You’d think the Universe would have had enough. And I know if you were awake you would scold me for getting all philosophical. Were Regis still in Toussaint, the two of you would sit me down and give me a long lecture about brooding. It’s too bad the two of you have never really met properly, you know, you would get along splendidly.”

Smiling at the thought, he curled himself around the sorceress as she continued to shiver, hoping his body heat would help. The bones of her shoulders and pelvis jutted outwards, pressing uncomfortably into his skin, and with the hand he had rested on her side he could count each of her ribs, her skin stretched like taut canvas over them. Yennefer had always been skinny, but never like this, and the thought brought unbidden to his head the image of how he had found her, wasting away in the darkness a dozen feet below the ground.

If she had died there, she wouldn’t have been able to see the sky. It was a trivial thought, a given one, but for some reason it brought him immense pain.

His wolf medallion, which had been quivering for the last while, stilled against his chest and he breathed out softly in relief. He had felt guilty sending Ciri away to Triss, especially seeing the hurt and frustration that had been written across the young woman’s face, but at the time his priority had been calming Yennefer down. He hoped she had been able to confide in the auburn-haired sorceress somewhat; despite the somewhat confused nature of his own relationship with her, Ciri still seemed to see her in many ways as an older sister. Hidden as his own were behind the fog of his mutations, Geralt wasn’t quite sure how to help the witcheress deal with the feelings she must have been struggling with, and he hoped that Triss would be better at it than he was.

Philippa was right, he mused with begrudging amusement, their whole arrangement was screwed up.

He had known, too, what conclusion Ciri would jump to when she noticed him brooding guiltily after his talk with Triss, but he hadn’t had the courage to explain to her the real reason. How could he admit to her the doubts he had placed in Yen’s head, the damage of the words he had spoken unthinkingly? And he knew his adopted daughter well enough to realize that she would place pressure on her own shoulders as well if she knew the truth, pressure to prove to her mother that she was enough, that she knew she loved her.

He couldn’t do that to Ciri. It was better if she simply thought him unfaithful.

He would have to speak to the young woman tomorrow though, make sure that Yennefer didn’t know what had happened tonight, if by any luck she didn’t remember. If Triss had been telling the truth about the doubts filling the sorceress’ head, knowing that she had hurt and scared her daughter, however unwittingly, could only make things worse.

Already Geralt had no clue how to fix what had happened, he had been built to kill monsters after all, not to be a lover or a father. It would be better if he didn’t aggravate the situation, make anything harder than it already was.

He would have BB clean up the mess of the destroyed wardrobe first thing tomorrow morning, he decided. He would have to find another one, as similar to it as possible, if he wanted Yennefer to be none the wiser, meaning he’d have to send a worker to Beauclair with a heavy pouch of florens. Massaging his forehead with his fingers, Geralt tried not to think about his dwindling funds. It had been expensive tracking the witch hunters down, and Corvo Bianco would not start producing any income for another couple years yet. He would have to head into town soon, see if there was a contract he could take on.

Maybe he should take Ciri with him. He was worried what effects the stress of the past few weeks were having on her. Giving her a chance to stretch her legs, sword in hand, might do her some good.

But that would involve leaving Yennefer alone with Triss, and seeing the way the auburn-haired sorceress tip-toed around the injured woman, he wasn’t sure that was a good idea.

Mind racing with anxieties, he didn’t close his eyes for the rest of the night.


	11. Chapter 11

_XI_

When she awoke the next morning, the first thing Yennefer insisted on doing was taking a bath.

It was already near midday by the time she began to stir from sleep. Barnabas-Basil had organised for the splintered remains of the wardrobe to be cleaned up soon after the sun rose, and only the bare space left in the room and the faint scorch marks on the night table remained to speak of last night’s commotion. Geralt had cursed when he’d seen the blackened patches colouring the surface around the candle, but a tactfully placed embroidered handkerchief had to be enough to cover up the damage for the time being. There were too many other things to worry about.

Triss had drawn up a list of items that she needed in order to treat the rest of Yennefer’s wounds. Now that her condition had stabilized somewhat, the auburn-haired sorceress had explained, she could start with more aggressive forms of treatment to speed up the healing process and reduce the likelihood of any lasting marks or side effects. Many had been things that Geralt already had plenty of, bushels of celandine and berbercane, extracts of reachcluster and scarix, delicate glass vials of vampire saliva and light essence. Others, such as bitip and raven’s eye tubers, were much rarer and would have to be bought in Beauclair at unfathomable prices. He had already sent Ciri to take out a loan from Vivaldi, sending with her a note declaring him her guarantor and wincing at the thought of the interest rates.

Before disappearing in a flash of blue-green light, the witcheress had told him she would take on some contracts once she was in Novigrad, try to earn some extra money to help out. There had been an odd look on her face, and Geralt worried about her, but he hadn’t argued. He remembered what she had said to him before going to face the White Frost.

With everything taken care of as much as it could be, the witcher found himself sitting restlessly by the bed in the main bedroom, rhythmically running a whetstone along his silver blade, when she tried to sit up.

“You’d do best not to move.” Despite his concern, he was careful to keep his voice even, his tone indifferent and his eyes fixed unwavering on his blade. She would be feeling vulnerable already, and him fussing over her would only make things worse. Nonetheless, he couldn’t help but glance upwards at the rustling of the bedclothes, keen eyes appraising her as the sorceress dragged herself up to sit against the pillows, noticing how she winced almost imperceptibly and reached for her side. The skin around his lips tightened in the beginnings of a grimace; his sutures from the night before had been hasty, Triss would have to redo them. Though he wouldn’t admit it, he had been silently grateful that the auburn-haired woman had kept her distance. He wasn’t looking forward to explaining her presence to Yennefer, and the insecurities voiced in Triss’ dreams as well as the woman’s advances on him since her arrival had further complicated things. He wasn’t prepared to navigate that minefield, especially not with pain exacerbating Yen’s habitual irritability.

Moving his eyes upwards, he noticed a lattice of red scratches covering the bruises on her throat, small droplets of crimson where her nails had gone so deep that blood had beaded to the surface. She must have been raking at her skin in her sleep, he thought, searching for the star pendant currently tucked in the breast pocket of his tunic. Frowning, his gaze flitted back to his weapon, gold irises lingering on Aerondight’s delicately carved pommel. The sunlight peeking in through the half-drawn curtains on the window made the metal teeth of the snarling creatures glow. Glinting, the light hurt his eyes, but not half so much as it hurt to look at her.

“You don’t say.” Though lacking in its usual melodious ring, the rasp of her words still maintained their sharpness, the crack and whiplash of her tongue. Another groan, more shifting, the sound of soft skin running along silk sheets. “How long have I been asleep?”

“Nearly a fortnight now. You were awake for a short amount of time last night, you don’t remember?” He purposely let his words stretch out into a drawl, trying to maintain an air of nonchalance though he was holding his breath waiting for her answer.

“I…” Fading into a pause, Geralt could almost feel her frown in the air between them, though his eyes were fixed on the back and forth movement of his hand across his blade. Her brow would be furrowed, he knew, light trenches as her smooth forehead wrinkled, telling of the lines that time should have drawn on her face, would have drawn if not for magic. “No, I don’t remember that. Did I say anything particularly interesting?”

Had the witcher had the breath for it, had he lacked the restraint, he would have laughed. As it was, his chest felt tight as though his loose tunic was too small, and he only managed a small huff through his nose. He felt the tension increase, could imagine how her frown would have deepened, turning the lines on her skin from trenches to ravines. She would hate it if she saw them, he knew, and he never understood why, never understood her obsession with youth. Her years were as much a part of her as her ebony curls, her half-upturned lips, as important in making her beautiful to him. Years together, years apart. Eyes half-shut, he imagined running his thumb over her wrinkles, smoothing the creases.

 _Ice queen, indeed,_ he thought, _your beauty is wrought by glaciers._

He shook his head, and the newfound tension in the room melted.

_If truth is a shard of ice, what is a glacier?_

“Not really,” he lied, carefully easing the events of the previous night from his mind, in case she could still read it, “just something about making sure your garden was tended to.” Yen chuckled dryly, and he knew that she could see through his lie, but she didn’t press him. Instead she sighed, leaning further back against the nest of pillows at her back.

“I sure hope you took that to heart, I wasn’t joking. Knowing you, my Nazair roses haven’t been watered in how many weeks?” Geralt’s breath hitched and he dug a bit too sharply into the metal of his sword, the whetstone biting into the edge. There was a small twang, a sudden and scattering, high pitched sound. Stilling the small vibrations thrumming through the blade with the heel of his hand, he felt carefully at the soft silver with his fingers. Feeling a small notch near its tip, he swore quietly under his breath.

“Three and a half weeks.” His voice was tight, his words weary. Logically, he knew that witchers didn’t age like other men, but he could have sworn at that moment that he felt every single one of his years. “Three and a half weeks passed between you fleeing this room and me finding you in Deireadh, if that’s what you were asking. You remember that, I suppose?”

“Yes.” Her voice was uncharacteristically soft in its affirmation, unusually, openly, sad before reverting back to its usual, assured tone. “As I remember it, you weren’t wearing any plate, and your chainmail was rusted. Ah well, I guess not every girl can have a knight in shining armour.”

By the gods, he loved her. He loved her wry smile, her biting wit, the sharpness of her tongue and the fire of her eyes. Penitents worshipped the Eternal Flame as though it lived in rough iron braziers, trapped and tamed in shadowed alcoves by esteemed fanatics, but he knew better. He could see it inside of her, and he couldn’t help but draw closer to its heat, like some foolish cleric or pilgrim. He drew closer, and he could feel himself burning up.

Grunting, he passed his fingers once more over the edge of his blade around the notch, pulling back suddenly when he pressed a bit too hard and drew blood. He didn’t want to meet her eyes, so he looked at the blood, welling up through a small cut on the pad of his index finger. At the animals, perpetually snarling on the pommel of his sword.

“How much water, do you think, Yen, does it take to douse a flame?” He spoke slowly, thinking over each word before he let it go. “And-“ he interrupted the sorceress before she could respond, “how much water is there in a shard of ice?”

He could imagine her eyes narrowing, her expression turning shrewd, piercing as she tried to understand what he was leading to. He could imagine, but he couldn’t see, because he refused to look up.

“I certainly hope you haven’t been like this the whole time I’ve been out.” She said finally, her own words spoken in the same careful, measured tone. “Else I fear I will go downstairs to find poor Barnabas-Basil driven mad. I can’t read your mind anymore, Geralt, not without my pendant, so you will have to be a little less cryptic.”

The witcher’s lip curved upwards, more in a grimace than a smile.

“I’m sure you remember the banquet at Thanedd. I do, I remember the events of that night incredibly well. It was the night, after all, before – before…” Sighing he cleared his throat. “Well, I suppose that doesn’t really matter. But do you remember the illusion Philippa summoned, when she found that all the caviar had been eaten? My question – I guess – is,” taking a deep breath, he steadied his already still hands on the hilt of his sword, “are illusions, if they are woven well enough, if someone believes them, are they able to destroy what’s real?”

The sun gleamed off the snarling beasts of his pommel, and a bead of blood, fallen from his cut finger, dripped down one of the fangs. Breathing in deeply, he gathered his courage and looked up to face her.

Her mouth was parted ever so slightly, as though frozen in the act of forming an answer. Her violet eyes were wide, and he could see in them that she understood.

Pressing her lips into a thin line, she leaned forward, placing her hand over his on his lap. Her fingers were twisted, crooked, and the witcher kept his gaze on her face to avoid further pain.

“I think,” she said slowly, finally, “I think that I am desperately in need of a long bath. Perhaps you could ask Triss if she would heat the water up for me with magic, seeing as I’m not terribly in the mood to wait for a servant to do so.

Seeing the surprise on his face she laughed quietly, earnestly, if a little sadly.

“I know what was done to me, Geralt, I know how little time I had left. The fact that I have woken at all is a testament to the effects of strong magic, and there are very few sorceresses, of which I know, that you would trust enough to bring into our home. I’m not angry, I haven’t the energy, though I expect I will be later, but for now,” gesturing for him to lean forward, she gently kissed the corner of his mouth, “for now go fetch her, and have a tub brought up as well.”

Getting up with a groan as his stiff joints cracked and complained, he carefully placed Aerondight astride the seat of his chair.

“And witcher,” her voice interrupted him just as he reached for the door, once more strong and sharp, “any first-year at Aretuza would be able to tell you that the danger of illusions is not that they destroy what’s real, but that they become reality.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So next update will be in two weeks, as the past few have been, but after that I will have finished my summer internship and so if all goes well I will be back to updating weekly. I don't want to commit too much, but just so you guys know whats up as a sort of general update schedule plan.


	12. Chapter 12

_XII_

The water sluiced down her back in rivulets, following the painfully evident lines and contours of her spine and the surrounding muscles and tendons. The black curls of her hair stuck to her skin, weighed down by water such that they were nearly straight. Yennefer sighed in pleasure as the water cascaded over her head, eyes closed as she tilted her head up towards the stream of water. Steam rose from the surface of the bath, dancing up her lithe frame before drifting out towards the open window. To Geralt, dipping the bucket back below the water to pour over the sorceress again, the room was quickly becoming insufferably hot.

It was a regular penchant of hers, these steaming hot baths, that he had never truly understood. Accustomed to sporadic dips in cold rivers or streams by the road, he could understand, and sometimes indulged in, warming the water slightly, but she would heat it so that it burned when he first stepped in, turning his skin pink. He had complained loudly when Yen insisted that he adopt the same habit when they had settled in Toussaint, but while he still had his doubts about bathing regularly, he now grudgingly enjoyed how the hot water soothed his aging muscles and the ache that still persisted in his knee. He made a point, however, to steadfastly deny it whenever she pointed this out to him.

She arched her back slightly and moaned loudly, unabashedly, as he poured another stream of water over her. The new bandage on her side lifted briefly above the surface, and Geralt saw how the liquid beaded off of it rather than being absorbed. Both sorceresses had reassured him that the new stitches wouldn’t get wet once Triss had secured the white cloth, coated in some unknown elixir, but he nonetheless only stopped worrying once he saw it working himself.

“You shouldn’t do that, you know. Triss has helped us quite a bit, there’s no need to tease her, especially not to make a moot point.” His voice was perhaps a touch too scolding, seeing as she probably felt horribly vulnerable and childlike already, but she was acting rather childish in his opinion. Yennefer hummed noncommittedly, slowly passing a bar of lavender smelling soap over her arms. The lye must have made the remaining sores and burns on her skin burn, but she showed no sign of feeling it.

“I don’t know what you could possibly mean. I’m simply enjoying my first bath in _such_ a long time.” Her tone was innocent, almost simperingly sweet, and the witcher grunted scoffingly, pausing with the bucket resting on his lap to raise an eyebrow at her. Seeing his look, Yennefer snorted and shook her head softly, the wet tendrils of her hair sweeping across her back. “Besides, given the way she was looking at you, I wouldn’t exactly call it a moot point.”

As much as he didn’t want to, Geralt had to admit she had him there. The tension that had hung in the room as Triss had stitched and redressed the other woman’s side had been palpable, uncomfortably so, stretching the minutes it had taken into what felt like hours. While the auburn-haired sorceress had generally kept her eyes on her task, keeping a strained, painfully polite conversation with her patient, the glances she had surreptitiously thrown in the witcher’s direction had been clumsy and obvious. He did not usually mind her company, but had breathed a sigh of relief when she had finished and packed up her tools, stopping to heat the water in the tub before she left.

Yennefer smiled victoriously when he didn’t come out with any retort before tapping at his knee to indicate he should continue pouring the water over her. The witcher once more dipped the bucket into the water obediently, his knuckles brushing against the warmth of her knee as held its lip below the surface. Soap suds and washed off grime floated in the water, smudging everything beneath its surface, turning bruises into purple and blue paint strokes. There was something deeply, perhaps unfairly unsettling, he decided as he lifted the bucket and poured hot water over her back and shoulders, about hearing that strong, commandeering, familiar voice coming from such a broken, emaciated frame. The two things seemed fundamentally incompatible, an impossibility precluded by the forces of nature.

Dandelion had told him some years ago that a professor at Oxenfurt had determined that it took the brain only three days to adjust to even the most monumental changes. Something about a contraption that made the world appear to flip upside down, and the mind flipping it right side up again. Geralt had told him he was full of shit, that he should stick to writing bawdy ballads and leave the science to people with more brains. After all, he had pointed out, the elves have been losing ground to humans for nigh on a century but there are still bands of Scoia’tael roving the woods, there are still the dryads in Brokilon tirelessly sticking human soldiers like pin cushions. There was still Filavandrel, and Toruviel, whose lute the bard was now strumming, who saw that the world was upside down but could not turn it back up, who resigned themselves to pointlessly honourable deaths because they could not adapt enough for any other outcome. Swishing the heron’s feather in his hat as he tossed his head imperiously, Dandelion had spouted some drivel about the unique elasticity of the human brain.

It was a stupid conversation, one of many that he had shared with his friend in his years on the Path, and yet it came to Geralt now as it struck him that he finally had proof for his point. After all, his world had been twisted and overturned for weeks now, and, it seemed, would remain that way for awhile more. For however long it took the bruises on Yennefer’s skin to fade away, for the Universe to once more satisfy his understanding of it.

The sorceress swore as the bar of soap slipped from her hands into the depths of the tub. Though she hadn’t complained about it, he could tell that her fingers were stiff and uncooperative; they didn’t curl around the rim of the tub when she had gripped at its side while getting in, and he had seen her fumbling with the soap as she dragged it over her skin, unable to get a strong grip. Cursing again, loudly, she tried to lean forward to retrieve it, but the movement pulled at the barely healed injuries on her back. Slamming her fist against the wall of the tub in frustration her words dissolved into a groan as she bit her lip to keep from crying out in pain. Silently, the witcher bent down and took the bar of soap, placing it in the pewter dish at his feet. When he looked back up, she was glaring at him.

“I wasn’t done with that.” Violet eyes flashed beneath a curtain of raven hair and Geralt shook his head, amazed at how quickly she had restored her façade of indifferent, biting wit. He wondered often at how practiced she was at maintaining her mask, minimising her moments of vulnerability. Sometimes he thought that for all his mutations, she still did a better job of seeming emotionless. At the very least, she seemed to have more people fooled.

“How much cleaner do you need to be? If you scrub anymore you’re going to start taking off skin.” He got up from the chair he had been sat on with a huff, walking outside of her line of sight. “You do know those are bruises, not dirt?” Yennefer scoffed, but rather than reach for the pewter dish she settled back into the tub.

“I didn’t think you even knew what dirt was, seeing as you to refuse to bathe even semi-regularly. How your hair has managed to stay white all these years instead of turning yellow is beyond m-“ She stopped speaking with a start, jerking away when she felt a wisp of a touch against her bare back.

“Calm down, Yen, it’s just me.”

“By the gods, Geralt, I swear if you sneak up on me like that again… Geralt, are you brushing my hair?” His calloused hands had begun to gather her curls behind her as she was talking, and the bristles of her horse-hair brush tickled at her scalp as he brought it to the top of her head before sweeping it down, gently teasing out the tangles as he went. The witcher didn’t respond, and after a moment she leaned further back, letting her eyes drift half closed and humming in content.

Her eyelashes were impossibly dark against the paleness of her cheeks, quivering ever so slightly like small hummingbirds hovering in place. There was a scabbed over gash on one cheekbone, the kind caused by a ring on someone’s fist connecting with her face, and there was still a slight puffiness around the skin as it slowly stitched itself back together. Surrounded by magic, he was used to seeing injuries dissipate on the sorceress like smoke in a breeze, disappearing in a gentle pulse of energy soon after they appeared. It was strange to see her body healing like anybody else’s, and he thought it would do well for the people who hurt her to see it, to understand that they come from the same foundations.

Of course, they’re dead. And if they weren’t, Yennefer would kill them before they got close enough, as she should. The world is rarely about learning; reformation, in his experience, only exists in dusty books and in the minds of rich idiots. It has little place in reality and even less use. Punishment is easier.

“Your hair is rougher than it used to be.” He’s not quite sure why he says it, but it tumbles out from between his lips anyway as he runs his fingers through her curls,, glimmering in the light shining through the open window. The sorceress huffs out a laugh, a small smile playing at the edges of her mouth, though she doesn’t open her eyes.

“My, you do know how to make a woman feel good, don’t you? It’s because of a vitamin D deficiency, it’s gone all frail, but it should sort itself out now. Here, start brushing from the bottom, not the top, it’ll make it a bit easier for you.” Reaching around with a slight wince, she made to grab the brush from him, but her fingers locked before closing around the handle and it fell to the floor with a clatter. Yennefer growled in frustration. “Those ploughing whoresons. If they weren’t already in the ground I’d kill them myself, let them die slowly. I’ll have to go see Rita, see if there isn’t any experimental studies at Aretuza that might be able to fix these blasted fingers. I swear, Geralt, I don’t know what I’m going to do if they don’t… If I can’t…” Her voice faded out to nothing, lost amongst the swirling steam that drifted through the room out the window. Sighing heavily, she propped an elbow on the rim of the tub and let her head fall into her hand, landing heavily in her palm. The witcher opened his mouth slightly, ready to reassure the sorceress, but after a moment he decided against it. She wouldn’t appreciate any of the platitudes or fake reassurances he had been about to offer, and he didn’t have anything else to give her.

After a moment he bent down, picking the brush off from the floor and going back to running it through her hair. He made a point to let his fingers graze gently against her temples as he once more gathered her hair at her back, a silent reminder that he was still there.

It was a few minutes before she moved again, minutes spent in an aching silence as he pulled the brush through the locks of her hair, fingers running through wild, untamed curls. She didn’t respond at all to his touch, not even when the bristles caught in a particularly large knot, pulling her head back with the force. Her face was carefully, frighteningly impassive, meticulously distant and framing dull eyes. The witcher hated seeing it, and was guiltily glad that she was looking away from him.

“Have you heard anything from Ciri? She usually likes to keep in touch every couple weeks while she’s on the Path.” Her voice was confident and clear again when she spoke, as if nothing had happened. He was fairly certain though, that if he payed attention he could hear an almost-sigh of resignation. Geralt didn’t know how to react, not to her words, not to the oddness beneath them, so he laughed, a short bark of a sound, which only drew a reproving look from the sorceress.

“You were gone for well over a fortnight, Yen, you don’t think she didn’t notice something was wrong? I’d barely started looking for you when she showed up, going on about one of those dreams of hers she’d had. She was very worried you know, she truly does care for you.” Yennefer snorted, an odd, hollow chuckle falling from her lips.

“Yes, well, we have all made mistakes in our youth.” Turning away, she closed her eyes once more, making it clear the conversation was over. The black circles under her eyes stared at Geralt when he looked up, and rather than ask her what she meant by that he turned silently back to his task, enjoying the feeling of her hair running through his fingers. 

He didn't think too much on what she had said; despite her words, he could see a pleased smile playing at the corner of her mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope this chapter was ok, and I should be starting to update weekly again so we'll see how that goes. Also, as always, thanks to Linux; I was a terrible procrastinator this time round and he put up with me anyway.


	13. Chapter 13

_XIII_

_She was woken by the sound of drums._

_They pounded against her skull, a pulsing, agonizing rhythm that made her instinctively go to press her palms against her temples, to still the vibrations running through her head, scattering her thoughts. She couldn’t focus, could barely breathe, could only think that she needed the goddamned noise to stop._

_The heavy weight of metal dragged down at her wrists as she tried to raise her hands, drawing out a hollow clang that echoed and amplified the incessant beat hammering at her. Gritting her teeth she looked around desperately, trying to make out the source of the noise, but the world around her was blurry and unfocused, little more than a smear of dark browns and blacks._

_A few feet from where she sat she could just make out a patch where the browns were warmer, lighter in colour with hints of yellow light that drowned out the murky darkness that was lurking elsewhere. Grunting, she shakily pushed herself onto her knees, meaning to head towards it, only to fall forwards, the world swaying as she lurched and lost her balance, her head exploding with sickening pain, searing through her. Leaning to the side, she expelled the contents of her stomach, wheezing, trying to suck in short breaths of air as she wrinkled her nose at the acrid smell._

_She wiped her upper lip with the sleeve of her dress when she was done, thinking at how many times she had scolded Ciri for doing the same thing._

_Once her stomach had settled fully she once more made to move towards the light, opting to crawl rather than experience the unpleasantness of trying to stand up again. Inching forward on her hands and knees, dragging the metal clamped around her wrists behind her, the sorceress resolutely pushed aside her smarting pride, happy that at least nobody else would be able to see her, reduced to crawling, in this blackness._

_Her fingers brushed into cold iron just at the edge of the light patch, a chill that sent goosebumps running up her arms, making her shiver. Pulling back, she winced and shook her head in a fruitless effort to clear the pounding drums and force the world into focus before reaching out again, wrapping her fingers around some sort of metal pole dug deep into the rough hewn stone of the ground. Feeling around carefully, she noticed more rungs stretching out to one side, spaced evenly, the cold biting at her palms. On the other side she felt only damp rock as the floor was cut short abruptly by a solid wall._

_Swearing under her breath, she sat back on her knees and leaned against the wall, the cool rock of the damp surface soothing her pounding head. The metal had been absolutely still beneath her fingers when she had grasped it, and there were no vibrations at her side, pressed against the wall. The drums, she surmised, must be entirely imagined. Gingerly, she reached up, pressing carefully at the tender, raised flesh on the back of her head, brushing aside curls matted with dried blood so she could feel the skin of her scalp._

_Something had hit her, hard. She couldn’t feel any ridges or grooves that might indicate a fracture, though she probably had a moderate concussion, if her headache was anything to go by. Trying to concentrate on her surroundings, to figure out where she was, only made the pounding worse, so instead she tried to figure out how she had gotten here._

_She had had a fight with Geralt. That she remembered painfully clearly, more so than she would have liked. They had fought and she had run away, unwilling to face what he had accused her of, unable to reconciliate the worries he had echoed with reality. She had created a place for herself in this world, through sheer force of will, and motherhood, the family she had miraculously gained, was integral to that identity. Without that, how was she any more than the lonely enchantress, the ice queen, she had been before that fateful night in Rinde? How was she anything more than the pitifully deformed girl with scars on her wrists?_

I am Yennefer of Vengerberg _,_ _she reminded herself resolutely, fisting her hands in her lap as the drums pounded painfully in the darkness,_ not Jenny, not Janka. I am Yennefer and I… and I have a daughter. And I love her very much. More than all the world.

_It was all too bad, she decided, that the sorrows of her past didn’t care to listen. She may not be that helpless child anymore, that bitterly lonely woman, but their ghosts were much harder to shake, required more than a changed name or a changed resolve. In the past she mourned the child she could never have, and though she had one now there was still a piece of her, a wisp of another life, caught in mourning._

_And because of that, because of her own stupidity, her own self-conceit, absorbed to the point of distraction in foolish self-pity, she had found herself in fettered in chains, trapped between stone walls and metal bars. The witch hunter emblem, seen moments before she had been knocked out, swam hazily before her eyes._

_She laughed, a terrible, heartless sound, because she was horribly afraid, and sorceresses were meant to laugh in the face of fear._

***   *   ***

_The sound of metal on metal wrested her from an uneasy sleep, the clanging echoing through her battered skull. Gritting her teeth, she opened her eyes, so dark as to be nearly indigo, and glared at the grizzled man leering at her between the iron bars._

_His gauntleted hand shook the heavy keychain hanging from his meaty fingers again, mouth split in a toothless grin as the brass keys fell against each other, producing another clamour of sound as he tossed a grimy wineskin into her cell._

_“Wakey, wakey, Madam sorceress. I’ve brought our finest vintage of gnat’s piss for your drinking pleasure.” The guard, a brutish hunk of a man, beady eyes hidden behind a thick beard, laughed gruffly, puffing out his chest as though proud of his clever mockery. Someone unseen swore to his left, followed by the sound of dice clattering across the table._

_“For fuck’s sake, Malcolm, will you stop it with that racket, I swear you’re gonna cave my bloody head in. Stop talking to the bitch and take your turn will you? Go on, it’s your roll. This ploughin’ game’s rigged, I tell you.”_

_Yennefer didn’t blink as the brute turned back one more time to her, raising his eyebrow suggestively before lumbering in the direction of the voice, the rusting scabbard of a short, military-issue sword creaking as it swung from his hip. Her tongue was swollen in her mouth from thirst, her cracked lips sticking uncomfortably as she pressed them together in a thin line, but she waited until he stepped into the puddle of torchlight and disappeared from her line of sight before she leaned forward to reach for the wineskin. She winced as she did so, a manacled hand reaching instinctively to her side as pain seared through it. She had counted one, maybe two broken ribs a few hours before, but given how much it hurt she would have believed someone had they told her that her whole ribcage was shattered._

_Biting back a groan, covered by the sound of dice skittering over wood, her left hand curled around the leather throat of the wineskin and she pulled it up towards her chest, tearing out the wooden cork with her teeth. The fingers of her other hand were bent and swollen, unable to lift the bottom of the container so she tipped her head back and drank from it one-handed, ignoring how the watered-down wine dribbled out the corners of her mouth and ran down her chin and neck in crimson rivulets. The guard’s name for it had been accurate; the wine was sour, and when she swallowed she felt dirt and grit scrape against her teeth and throat, but she downed it greedily anyway, trying to dispel the painful dryness that had filled her mouth for the past week._

_It astounded her how, a matter of days before, she had been sipping Est Est overlooking the rolling hills of Toussaint. How she had lain on the velvet cushions of her lounge chair, insects buzzing lazily by her ears in the heat of the afternoon. How Geralt, coming home from a hunt, had swatted her feet, stretched languidly, to the side and sat down beside her. She had muttered something playful but petty, scolding him, and he had kissed her._

_He had thought about happy things as he pressed his lips to hers, about beautiful sunrises and the setting sun glittering on the stained glass windows of Beauclair castle. About falling asleep beneath the stars, shining through the broken timbres of an inn destroyed by a djinn. He thought about the two of them, laughing with their daughter and her hands were straight and Ciri’s cheek was smooth, and all their friends chattered happily amongst each other around them. And she knew it was a lie, but it was a beautiful lie, a lie he had crafted just for her, and she smiled against him and lost herself in the warmth of his skin and the strength of his grip and…_

_Exhaling roughly she finished the wine and threw the wineskin and cork between the bars of her cell and into the hallway. Letting her head fall back against the wall, wincing as her still bruised skin touched the cold stone, she let her eyes flutter shut again._

And now I’m here _, she thought,_ and even that memory feels like a lie, a fever dream.

_In her mind she had given the witcher a week to find her; the first few days to realize something was wrong, the remaining ones to track the witch hunters down and formulate a plan of attack. As best as she could tell, trapped underground, he was quickly reaching the end of that quota._

_Growling under her breath she picked at the lock of the manacle on her right hand with torn and bloodied nails. She had already tried innumerable times to trip the catch clamping the metal around her wrists, but to no avail. Dimeritium didn’t rust, didn’t weaken due to exposure to the elements like other metals did; the chains holding her were as strong as the day they had been forged._

_No, there was no way she could escape, not on her own. Even if she could get the manacles off, if she could have access to her magic again, she didn’t have her pendant, she had woken some days back to find its familiar weight against the hollow of her neck missing. She wouldn’t be able to conjure anything powerful enough to waylay her guards, never mind a portal out of her accursed cell. For all she insistently assured herself of her own titles and power, she was painfully helpless._

_But if she had her magic then perhaps, at the very least, she would have the power to end it. It wouldn’t be too difficult, a simple spell to ignite the straw that littered the ground. The damp left her in no doubt that the flame would not catch, would not spread, but it might last long enough for her to draw from it._

_She had drawn energy from fire before, but only in small amounts, only carefully regulated. Anything more, anything like what she was thinking of now, would be deadly. And painful. Shuddering, her hand twitched in her lap. It would be incredibly painful._

_Behind her closed eyelids she could see Sheala de Tancarville, mouth swollen, face scarred, curled in the corner of a cell just like her own. She could see the desperation in her eyes, hear the hollowness in her voice, when she asked Yennefer to kill her. She could see it as clearly as she could see the stone-faced, imperious woman sitting proudly beneath the arched ceiling of Montecalvo, hands curled comfortably over the carven sphinxes at her side, perched atop the armrests of the high backed chair. She could see the inscrutable glimmer in her eyes, the confidently calculating curve of her lips, she could see them bending, fading at the hands of cruel men in the dungeons of Deireadh. She could see the untouchable Koviri recluse withering, becoming unrecognizable._

_She refused to let the same thing happen to her._

_Off to the side, out of sight, drifted the sounds of harsh laughter and the rolling of die._

***   *   ***

_Her finger snapped and she screamed._

_The wiry man towering over her chuckled, revealing rotting teeth as he flashed her a smile before turning to the notebook at his side and picking up the ragged quill beside it, carefully dipping it in an open inkpot. Dizzy with pain, the scratching of the nib on parchment ricocheted about the inside of her mind and she momentarily squeezed her eyes shut as though to block out the sound._

_After a minute he put the quill back down, sprinkling sand on the pages and blowing on the drying ink before closing it shut. Seemingly satisfied, he hummed quietly as he picked a mallet back up from the table and turned towards her, beady eyes gleaming._

_"Again, my dear.” Snatching her hand from where she had pulled it to her chest, he pressed it palm-down against a stone slab, splaying out her deformed fingers, “Tell me where your other sorcerer friends are, and you can die quickly. This time with more words and less screaming, yes?”_

_Looking him in the eye silently, her lips pulled back into a sneer and she jutted out her chin obstinately. The mallet fell, followed by the sound of breaking bones._

_Panting heavily, chin lolling against her chest as she once more gathered herself together, she bit her lip to stop a groan from slipping out._

_The mallet fell again._

_Sweat dripped from her forehead, sliding down her neck and over the all-too-obvious ridge of her collarbone before slipping beneath the collar of her tattered shift. Growling, she set her jaw, muscles tensing as her head snapped up to her torturer, a scathing rebuke at the tip of her tongue._

_Her hands burned with pain and her words died, unspoken, as her eyes met his. In the moments since she had last looked up, bubbling burns had raced across one half of the man’s face, permanently marring the flesh of a face that had suddenly become almost perversely beautiful. In the place of one eye glittered a semi-precious stone, anchored crudely to the surrounding flesh, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that it was looking inside her._

_Fire raced through her bloodied fingers, burning, burning and leaving nothing but charred remains._

_"Yennefer, Yennefer.” Scolded Vilgefortz of Roggeveen, her name caught in the scathing tones of his drawl. “How many times must I tell you. You mistake the stars reflected in the pond for the night sky’ He grinned, mouth stretching impossibly wide, “I think a mother’s love would make a beautiful star, don’t you?”_

_A horrible sound tore from her throat, a scream clawing its way out to the surface. Screwing her eyes shut, she tossed her head back against the wooden chair that she was strapped down to before pursing her lips and spitting in his face._

_There was a clatter, swearing, and a hand connected with her face, backhanding her, yanking at her neck as a piece of metal tore open a gash in her cheek. When she opened her eyes again the face looking back at her was once more the plain, if slightly ugly face of a peasant. Two eyes glared back at her, icy, unremarkable, seeing. The only burns she could see were on her own skin._

_The mallet fell._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok guys I'm so sorry I know I said weekly updates now but I'm moving out for university across the country in a couple weeks so everything's very busy. As such, I'm not sure when the next update will be, but I am going to TRY to stick to bi-weekly.


	14. Chapter 14

_XIV_

Ciri’s sword sang through the air as she swept it out in a wide arc, pivoting her hips to put the force of her weight behind the swing. The silver tip flashed in the light of the setting sun, slicing wisps of coarse, grey hair from beneath the katakan’s chin as it jumped out of the way with supernatural speed. Gritting her teeth in frustration, she used her forward momentum to leap towards the creature in a quick lunge, feinting an attack from the right before driving the blade in front of her.

What should have been a deadly blow left little more than a scratch on the monster’s elongated arm as it twisted to the side before falling on her in a flurry of uncoordinated blows, long claws drawing sparks as the witcheress’ blade met them in a last-minute parry. The sudden impact sent pins and needles up her arm and threw her off balance, dropping her guard long enough for a claw to tear a gash in her upper arm.

Hissing in pain, she flashed backwards in a flare of blue-green light, the vampire raising its arm to protect its eyes as the normally dim cavern briefly lit up. Moving in a tight circle around the creature, Ciri lunged forward while it was still disoriented, sliding her blade between its ribs and drawing a squeal from the monster. Tucking in her knees, she dropped to the ground in a low pirouette, pulling her sword from its side as the vampire’s claws sailed over her head, spittle flying from the hideous snarl of its mouth. She locked her elbows straight as she spun back around, holding the hilt of her sword in both hands as the blade bit into the soft skin of the monster’s belly, slicing it open in a smooth half-turn.

Groaning horribly, the katakan fell forwards onto its knees, intestines spilling onto the cave floor. Throwing her arms out to slow her spin, she blinked backwards, disappearing in a flash of light only to reappear a few feet away, sword held in front of her, at the ready.

Her caution, an instinct born from her months training at Kaer Morhen, proved unnecessary as the vampire didn’t retaliate, instead kicking up a cloud of dirt and mushroom spores as it collapsed to the ground, eyes glossed over. One long, bat-like ear twitched sporadically, its paper-thin shell quivering in the gloom.

Ciri waited for it to still before she relaxed her stance and came closer. She had heard too many times what had happened to Geralt, fighting the striga at Foltest’s castle, and the witcher’s warnings rang in her ears, carried by the flow of adrenaline still coursing through her. Kneeling down, she carefully wiped her blade clean once the katakan had not moved for several minutes, sliding the metal along the grass, damp from the evening fog. The sword hissed as she slid it back into the scabbard on her back, reminding her of a coiled snake.

The sun was nearly below the horizon and very little light filtered through the cave, making it difficult to see. Straining her eyes, she picked her way around the vampire’s long limbs, splayed out on the ground, and knelt beside its head, pulling a serrated hunting knife from her belt. Her mouth twisted into a grimace as she brought the blade down, slicing through tough flesh and into the muscle and sinew beneath.

She bisected the spine between the upper two vertebrae, cutting through spongey cartilage and avoiding the bone which would nick and dull the knife. The creature’s blood – warm and nearly black – splashed up her arms, running in rivulets of viscous liquid over the vampire’s coarse mane and onto the leather of her pants. Scrunching up her nose at the stink that now pervaded the cavern, Ciri tore through the last of the flesh connecting the katakan’s head to its body and threaded her fingers through the long hair at the top of its head, yanking it with her as she stood.

The sound of liquid dripping from the bloodied stump onto the ground echoed through the cavern. The witcheress hurried outside, not wanting to have to listen to it for any longer than necessary.

She had too many memories of blood falling from severed heads; more than any person ought to. Each one of them brought a bitter taste to her mouth.

Her horse watched her curiously as she struggled out of the cave, nostrils flaring and the whites of its eyes flashing when it saw the monster’s head she dragged behind her. She had bought the beast – a roan carthorse – for a hundred crowns off a trader by the Seven Cats Inn, who had thrown in a cheap saddle and bridle, obviously eager to be rid of the animal. Ciri quickly understood why; the horse fought with her about putting each hoof forward, and had already tried to buck her off several times.

Not for the first time she missed Kelpie, missed the feeling of freedom as the black mare nearly soared over the ground, the sweat beading down her glossy coat as the muscles in her long neck strained forward, the inhalation and exhalation of her powerful lungs. Maybe one day she would be able to buy herself another horse like that.

The roan tried to bite her fingers as she attached the hunting trophy to the saddle with a length of rope, snorting and eyeing her balefully when she pushed its snout away with one hand in the middle of her work. Crimson rivers began to trace their way down the animal’s flank almost immediately, blood matting the coarse hair of its coat, and the horse stamped one hoof impatiently, obviously unsettled by the rank object that had been affixed to its side. Ignoring it, Ciri tore a piece of cloth from her undershirt, wrapping it tightly around the wound on her upper arm before checking that her sword was in place on her back and swinging herself up onto the saddle, settling her feet comfortably in the stirrups.

For once, the horse didn’t resist when she pressed her heels into its side. Made skittish by the scent of blood, the animal quickly fell into a steady trot.

The grassy knolls to the east of Novigrad seemed to glitter in the last few rays of the rapidly disappearing sun, dew glistening on the long grass, deposited by the cloud of fog that had swept up from Crookback Bog earlier in the evening. The trees that dotted the landscape clung onto the last of their fiery foliage, orange and yellow leaves shaking free at the slightest breeze. A particularly red one drifted down from a nearby ash tree, landing amidst the mouse-grey of Ciri’s hair, pulled back into a bun. Smiling to herself, she pulled it from her head and examined it, tracing the delicate veins running just beneath its surface.

Yennefer had explained to her why leaves changed colours in fall, she remembered, one of many lessons in the courtyard of Mother Nenneke’s temple in Ellander. She remembered watching the sorceress draw energy from a perfectly green leaf, watching as it turned yellow then red, drying until it was perfectly preserved in one delicate hand, the way the corners of the enchantress’ mouth lifted ever so slightly, just for a moment, when Ciri gasped in childlike wonder.

When the little witcheress had tried to do the same thing, the leaf had immediately caught on fire, setting a nearby wicker basket alight and scorching the paving stones of the yard. Yennefer had laughed at her, one of the first times the girl had heard her laugh, patting her pupil’s head as Ciri’s cheeks flushed with anger and embarrassment.

 _“Come, my ugly one,”_ The enchantress had said finally, one hand at the small of her back urging her back inside the temple, _“we had better get going before Mother Nenneke sees this and gives me a good earful.”_

The next morning, there had been a crown woven of autumn leaves on the floor by Ciri’s bed. She had worn it until it had crumbled into dust.

The witcheress’ throat felt strangely dry, so she swallowed hard and flicked the reins, urging her horse into a brisk canter. Her eyes began to water, but it was only from the wind rushing past her as she sped ahead. Only from the wind.

One of the guards watched her curiously when she trotted up the bridge to the southern gate, eyes narrowed, flickering between the hilt of her sword sticking from her back and the puddle of blood gathering on the ground from the monster head strapped to her saddle.

“We don’t want no trouble, you hear?” He said nervously, glancing at his partner at the other side of the gate, who was fast asleep against the railing. Ciri smiled placatingly, sweeping a fringe of hair down to cover the scar on her cheek.

“Of course not sir, just here to complete a contract.”

Biting his lip nervously, the guard nodded and waved her through. She could feel his eyes on her back until she turned the corner and some buildings blocked her view. It made her shiver. She would never understand how Geralt became so used to that look.

The alchemist she was searching for had set up his stall in the same place as yesterday, by the gruesome pyres standing in Hierarch Square. Frowning, she looked away from the burnt corpse hanging from one of the beams, most likely some half-starved remnant of a long disbanded Scoia’tael unit. The crowd of merchants and clients filling the square made ample space for her as she guided her horse to the centre at a slow walk, being careful to watch for loose pebbles on the paving stones that could trip the animal up.

She could hear murmurs around her, almost feel the pressure change in the air as people pressed in behind her, glancing at the head dangling by her side. Sitting up straighter in the saddle, she made a point to ignore them, keeping her gaze fixed on the alchemist who was now watching her approach with a sort of resigned revulsion in his eyes. She didn’t think anybody would try anything, but Ciri was nonetheless thankful for the familiar weight of _Zireael_ over her shoulder.

Unthreading the complicated knots that held her trophy to her saddle, the witcheress dismounted and tossed the katakan head at the merchant’s feet, watching dispassionately as it bounced on the ground and rolled up to the tip of the poor man’s slipper, whose face was quickly turning a sickly shade of green.

“Here’s what killed your assistant.” She kept her voice steady, authoritative, as Geralt had taught her, making it clear that she was a professional who knew what she was doing. The corner of her mouth twisted up in a smirk when the man didn’t respond, staring wide-eyed at the bloody stump of the head. “As you can see, it won’t be giving you any problems anymore.”

Tearing his eyes away, the alchemist gulped, his adam’s apple visibly bobbing at his throat, and smoothed down his leather apron with calloused hands before clearing his throat and speaking, voice shaky.

“Yes, of course, thank you. Would it be possible for you to… well… you see I don’t think I’ll be needing this head. You’re more than welcome to keep it if… you know… I’ve heard witcher’s potions need all sorts of odd ingredients. I’m sure this would be of more use to you than to me.”

Coiling the rope she had used to secure the trophy around her arm, Ciri tied it into a neat loop and tucked it into her saddle pouch, watching as the poor man wrung his hands, eyes flitting frantically between the sword on her back and the monstrosity on the ground.

“I can take the katakan’s head off your hands, no need to worry. First, however, I’m afraid there’s still the matter of my payment

***   *   ***

The chill of the night air nipped at her bare skin, the slight breeze pulling at the frayed edges of the makeshift bandage on her arm, tugging incessantly at the scab that had formed, keeping the cloth plastered to her flesh. Her green eyes seemed to shine in the dark, focused intently on the small clay balls as she gingerly removed them from a burlap sack and placed them on the slimy stones that lined Oxenfurt's sewer system.

She ran her thumb over the dried clay as she placed another one down carefully, feeling the intricate runes carved into the bomb’s surface. The blacksmith she had bought them from had charged her an arm and a leg; nearly two thousand crowns that she had earned from various contracts, but she knew the runes well enough to know that it had been worth it. If all went to plan, there would barely be any rubble left standing.

She kept picturing Yennefer as she walked though the dungeons of Deireadh, climbing in through the same gap in the sewer walls that Geralt had gone through to find Margarita Laux-Antilles. Her gaze lingered on the rusted iron bars, stretching from floor to ceiling, delineating suffocating cages that reeked of pain and resignation. The grizzled witcher hadn’t told her what he had found when he freed the black-haired sorceress from here what felt like a lifetime ago, and Ciri didn’t want to know. It was bad enough picturing the woman she saw as her mother lying, broken, on the floor of one of these cells, she wasn’t sure she could bear to have that image confirmed.

Shaking the thought from her head, she forced herself to focus on the task at hand. If she didn’t manage to do this tonight, she would most likely not have another chance for a long while. She had gotten the idea for her plan from the alchemist who had hired her to kill the katakan, a trade of services for information. He had told her that a series of executions were planned for tonight, mostly herbalists accused of witchcraft and non-humans imprisoned out of spite, nothing monumental, but big enough that the other prisoners would be brought to the main square to watch, to see the example made of their comrades.

He had assured her that the prison would be empty. Whatever guards, he had told her, that might have been stationed there would have wandered off to alehouses and brothels before the moon had fully risen, seeking better entertainment. So far, he had been right, but Ciri had still taken the time to inspect each corner of the building, to be certain there was no one inside.

All she had found were bones.

The enchantress’ violet eyes haunted her as she carefully placed the bombs around the walls and supporting columns of the floor, going slower than she needed to to be fully sure that the clay casings wouldn’t crack. The look in Yennefer’s eyes, the pure, unfiltered fear that had shone in them just before she threw the witcheress into the dresser, had been taunting Ciri since that night, like some horrible inescapable truth. The kind of truth that a witcher’s sword couldn’t touch, no matter how skilled the wielder.

“You won’t have to be afraid, Mama.” Her words were soft, barely more than a whisper thrown out against the cold stone walls, “Not anymore.”

She stood back to admire her handiwork once she had placed the last of the bombs, ensuring that none had rolled or been knocked out of place. She hadn’t been able to afford as many as she would have liked; she had to make sure they were in the right places, or else the blast might not destroy all the foundation.

Taking the cord she had used to string up the katakan's head, she carefully doused it in oil from a small pot at her belt, smoothing the liquid into the fibres of the rope with her finger before placing one end over the first bomb and snaking it out back the way she had come, making sure she would be several lengths away when the first blast hit.

The rope needed only a single spark, flying from the flint in her hand, to be set alight, so little effort for the havoc it would cause.

Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon stood back and watched as the flames raced up the length of rope, disappearing through the gap in the sewer tunnel and into the witch hunters’ prison, into the place that had nearly destroyed a family she had fought so hard, and for so long, to keep. She wasn’t able to save her mother from what had happened, not anymore, but at least, she reasoned, it would never happen again.

She stayed until the first blast hit, the heat from the explosion scorching her face and singeing off part of her eyebrows before she finally teleported away, disappearing in a flash that rivaled that of the bombs as they went off, one after the other in rapid succession.

She made sure to watch Deireadh crumble from afar, watch the bloodstained stone and brick turn to dust as the building was utterly destroyed, wiped from the Oxenfurt skyline. Only when the flames died down did she leave, finally heading home.

For the first time in awhile, she found herself smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm alive!!!!
> 
> In all honesty, I'm so sorry for taking so long. Things have been a little bit wild, but they should have calmed down enough for me to start updating semi-regularly again. That being said, I'm not going to commit to any schedule just yet, because depending on how work picks up for uni in the next few weeks I don't know myself what I'll be looking at. Just know that I haven't abandoned the story, I'm just very busy.
> 
> With that out of the way, I hope you enjoyed this chapter! I know it's probably not what you guys were looking for, especially not after a long break, but this is what I had planned initially and I didn't want to take it out or move it around just because I haven't been great about updating.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, I've gotten even worse about updating. Unfortunately, with the end of semester creeping up, I won't be getting any better, so sorry about that. That being said, because of the long wait I decided to update a few days early, so maybe that helps make up for it (not really, I know)
> 
> I know this might not be the chapter people wanted, as it is fairly focused on Triss and her relationship with Yennefer, so I'm sorry about that, but having brought it up previously, and I didn't want to then ignore it. I promise this is probably the last of the story taking a good look at Triss like this.
> 
> Oh! I also created a writing blog where I'll post when I update here, and may take prompts in the future, so check it out: anslin.tumblr.com
> 
> One more thing: thank you very much to Linux. Of course this applies to every chapter, which he looks over for me and corrects, but for this one in particular he was very helpful. The first version I wrote was quite out of character because I was anxious to update, and he didn't hesitate to call me out on it, so thanks again, and sorry I can be difficult.

_XV_

The first snowflakes fell nearly two months after Yennefer’s capture, white crystals drifting to land among the frostbitten grass, peppering the rolling hills and crawling grape vines. They formed a delicate lattice on the panes of the master bedroom window, a crawling spider web with new branches blossoming as snow touched the glass and melted from the heat within. Sitting in a nearby armchair, violet eyes fixed outside, the raven-haired sorceress seemed enraptured by the droplets of water, quickly refreezing in the chill outside air, greedily extending long fingers of ice. She didn’t blink when Triss opened the door, when the hinges creaked and the floorboards groaned as she walked over to the fire, roaring in its hearth at the foot of the bed.

Workers hurried about in the fields, hunched over against the cold as they rushed to cover the vines in burlap to protect them from the cold, looking for all the world like busy ants against the backdrop of the vast landscape. The book in Yennefer’s lap lay open, forgotten, it’s reader’s attention having strayed elsewhere. Runes wandered aimlessly along the yellowed parchment, swirling amidst the black of complex etchings. Its title wasn’t visible, lost amongst the folds of the sorceress’ skirts.

Seeing violet eyes reflected in the glass panes of the window, a shiver ran down Triss Merigold’s spine. Unconsciously, she brought her arms up to her chest, shapely fingernails absently picking at the lace of the high collar of her dress, the surface of her throat undulating underneath as she swallowed thickly. The flickering flames in the hearth beside her reflected in the cornflower blue of her eyes as she quickly cast them to the side, flinching from the gaze of the room’s only other occupant. Yennefer’s gaze was distant, focused on some thing beyond the horizon.

“We need to talk, Yenna.”

The raven-haired sorceress stirred at Triss’ voice, but rather than turning to look at her, she looked down at the open page of the book on her lap. The other woman waited, but she didn’t respond, seemingly fixated on words she was reading, though her mouth visibly tightened, lips pressing into a narrow line. Unable to read her expression, Triss focused on the murmur of the other sorceress’ thoughts, hoping to gain some insight, to figure out how to approach what she was trying to say, but Yennefer’s thoughts were subtle, little more than a murmur, indistinguishable now that she was no longer unconscious.

It was much like the sound of a bee trapped in a jar, Triss decided. Except for the agony. And the sadness.

“I need to speak with you.” She tried again, trying not to let her frustration bleed into her voice. Attempting an air of nonchalance, she held her hands out to the fire, hoping to warm them. Despite the heat radiating from the flames, she found herself shivering. “We need to talk about why I’m here.”

“Indeed, Triss,” Yennefer’s tone was icy, imperious, seeming to resonate throughout the room, though she didn’t even glance up from her book, “I wasn’t going to mention it – for Geralt’s sake, you understand – but why are you here? I thought I’d made very clear that you weren’t welcome here. Did you need a reminder?”

Anger flaring up, the auburn-haired enchantress turned from the fire, preparing to meet the other woman’s gaze, but Yennefer had turned back to her book, settled comfortably as though having never spoken. She sighed exasperatedly.

“I didn’t come here to disrupt your retirement, to break this cozy little illusion of happiness and content you’ve built for yourself. I’m not comfortable being here either, you know. I left behind my own comforts to be here. I know it may be difficult for you to understand, but there are many other places I would rather be than here. I came because Geralt asked me to –“ the other woman cut her off, snorting contemptuously.

“You’ll understand why that doesn’t make me feel any different. Quite the opposite, in fact.”

“ _And_ ,” Triss continued, stressing the word meaningfully, “and because I was worried for you”

“Truly, Triss?” Slamming her book shut, Yennefer looked up, eyes shining as she glared at the younger sorceress, “Are you sure me or my wellbeing truly factored into at all? Or is that simply a lie you’re telling yourself, to make you feel better? Geralt told me,” she elaborated, not letting the other woman interrupt, “I know how you tried to seduce him when you first came here. Did you think he wouldn’t tell me? You need to move on, my dear,” she smirked derisively, “all this rejection can’t be good for your health.”

“It’s you who needs to move on,” Triss snapped, clenching her fists in the fabric of her skirt angrily, “Look at yourself, Yenna. You won’t even let me near your witcher, for fear that he’ll betray you. Are you so insecure, so unsure of his love, that you feel you have to remove even the remotest temptation? He rejected my offer, didn’t he? He told you what happened, and yet you’re so caught up in what happened when he could barely even remember his own name that you still can’t trust him.”

“I know, Yenna,” She continued quickly, seeing the other sorceress’ features twist into a defensive sneer as she readied some sharp retort, “I know about your argument with Geralt, I know what he said to you. But did you truly think that that’s what he meant, is your opinion of him that low? Or is it your opinion of yourself?” Voice softening, Triss took a couple of steps closer, watching as the other woman’s expression wavered, turned momentarily to something sad, something vulnerable. “I know what you were thinking when you were in Novigrad, when you were in Deireadh. I saw it. You’re not a bad mother, Yenna. And no one could replace you,” Her expression turned wistful, and she glanced away, refusing to meet those violet eyes, “I certainly couldn’t.”

Yennefer’s face blanched, turning impossibly pale as a painful, quivering fear flitted across her features. Unconsciously, her fingers reached up to the hollow of her throat, searching for the star pendant that normally sat there as understanding struck her. Then her eyes hardened, glittering like amethysts as her expression transformed into one of fury, fists clenched as she sat up straight in her chair, leaning forward as though ready to pounce on the other woman.

“You arrogant, little –“ She was shaking with anger, curls billowing around her thin shoulders as the air in the room began to crackle with electricity. Unintentionally, Triss took a step back, as though buffeted by a strong wind, but she didn’t retreat any further, standing her ground, feeling as though she was standing at the edge of a crumbling precipice.

“How long did it take you to start rummaging through my mind, how long before your morbid curiosity got the better of you? Tell me, why did you really come here? Did Philippa send you to capitalise on a moment of weakness, did you come running like her little pet, hoping for a treat, for a moment of recognition? Or did you come of your own volition, taking perverted pleasure in the suffering of a former friend? Well damn you, and damn anyone you might be working with.” The black-haired sorceress chuckled dryly, cruelly. “And here I was beginning to think that perhaps you had changed, that, at the very least, your feelings for Geralt had somewhat tempered your selfishness, had given you a sense of loyalty.”

“Well, you’ve had your fun,” Her mouth twisted into an ugly sneer into an attempt to mask the way her bottom lip trembled, “now get the hell out of here, and don’t you ever come back.”

Eyes narrowing, Triss’ cheeks flushed as she shook her head in vehement denial, auburn hair lashing at the humming air. One hand curled around the diadem at her breast, edges cutting into her palm as she squeezed tightly, drawing courage. In the back of her mind, the indistinct murmur of the other woman’s thoughts had become deafening, and she used the pain in her hand to help ground herself, focusing on the present.

“I freely admit I have made mistakes in the past, but don’t twist this into something it isn’t for the sake of distraction or petty revenge. I came here of my own volition. No matter what you may think, I still care about you. Whether or not, you return the feeling, I still see you as my friend.”

The chuckle that had escaped Yennefer stopped abruptly, the corners of her mouth tightening into a severe line as she narrowed her eyes almost to slits, gazing piercingly at Triss as though measuring her up.

“Do you invade the privacy of all your _friends_ ,” Voice scathing, her words seemed to lash out like venomous snakes, making the auburn-haired sorceress flinch, “or is it just me?”

“You know very well that that isn’t what happened, Yenna, I saw you feeling for your star on your neck just moments before.” Anger flared up within her at the other woman’s accusation, hardening her voice which had softened in sympathy for the injured enchantress. “And before you accuse me of anything else, I wasn’t the one who suggested removing your pendant in the first place, Ciri did. You taught her well.”

“And the hairpin I once gave you? I know you still have it. You could have easily strengthened its wards to block out any errant… signals.”

“I’ve told you already,” Triss’ voice fell soft once again, though she forced herself to continue looking the other woman in the eye rather than turn away, “I’m not the same person I was some ten odd years ago. I saw what you went through, I know what you were thinking, how you felt. Perhaps it was foolish of me, but I wasn’t going to leave you to go through that yourself. Even if it wasn’t real, even if it was only in principle. I wasn’t going to abandon you, not a second time.”

She had expected that Yennefer would lash out, ever unforgiving, even though she would have understood. She had expected that the raven-haired enchantress would yell at her, would order her to leave again, simply because it was easier than admitting that she understood, easier than acknowledging a moment of weakness. Instead the other woman only looked at her strangely, something like subdued appreciation hidden beneath the ice of her violet eyes.

“Indeed,” She said finally, breaking a silence that had settled between the women for several minutes, “you have changed.” Looking back out towards the window, Yennefer folded her hands in her lap, curling twisted fingers stiffly around each other. Triss was surprised to note that they were trembling. “You told Geralt what you saw, I imagine?”

It was more a statement than a question, an odd sense of resignation hanging within the cold calm that had once more settled over the sorceress. Furrowing her brow, the other woman paused briefly before shaking her head.

“I didn’t tell him about what you were thinking, if that’s what you’re asking. I did tell him what happened though. He feels quite guilty, Yenna. The two of you need to talk about it.”

“Perhaps,” Tilting her head slightly, the black-haired woman smiled slyly, “though talking has never been the witcher’s strong suit.” Blushing, Triss coughed lightly into her hand and the other woman raised a single pencilled eyebrow at her before continuing, “And my pendant? Could I have it back, or would you still prefer to do a bit more snooping?”

Wincing slightly at the less-than-subtle jab, the auburn-haired sorceress bit back a retort and smoothed her features, reminding herself that even if the other woman had accepted her explanation, the sting of her supposed betrayal would still be present.

“I don’t think that would be the best idea,” She said carefully, feeling as though she were picking her way around the edge of a cliff, “seeing as what happened with Ciri, even without it.”

Sitting up straight, Yennefer whirled around the other woman, any semblance of calm having left her in a shock of movement.

“What happened with her, is she alright? Geralt told me she had gone to take some contracts in Novigrad.”

“Don’t worry, she’s fine now. Last I heard, she had just completed a contract for some foglet that was preying on some sailors in the morning fog at the docks.” Looking at the other woman intently, Triss weighed her next words trying to prepare herself for how they might be received. “If Geralt didn’t tell you, Yenna, then he probably had his reasons. You should ask him yourself, I don’t want to be involved in this.”

Snorting, Yennefer shook her head sharply in refusal, though she did settle back into the chair at the other woman’s reassurances. Her hands in her lap tensed slightly as pain shot through her side, exacerbated by the sudden movements of the past few minutes, but her violet gaze didn’t falter as she looked reprovingly at the auburn-haired sorceress.

“Please. You’ve never had any trouble meddling in our affairs in the past.”

“I’m trying to change,” Triss protested, “it’s a slow process, but a process nonetheless. I’d prefer if you didn’t make me take any more steps back than necessary.” There was an uncharacteristically icy finality to her voice that seemed to surprise the other woman, who, after a few moments’ consideration, nodded and didn’t press it any further.

“Have it your way. But, at the very least, tell me, did I hurt her?”

The auburn-haired sorceress opened her mouth to speak, but found that she didn’t know how to answer, so she closed it. Yennefer nodded again.

“Perhaps it’s best I don’t get my pendant back just yet, then.” Her voice was quiet, raspy, infinitely sad. Turning away, back to the window, her eyes traced the ice on the glass, far away. “When I first started teaching Ciri in Ellander, I saw everything that would happen to her. I saw it, and a part of me knew that what I had seen would happen. And I was afraid, so I did nothing.”

What could I have done?” Her voice was a whisper, spoken only to herself as though she had forgotten that she wasn’t alone in the room. “So I did nothing. How many times is it now? How many times has her pain been my fault?”

“Yenna…”

“Leave me alone now, Triss. Thank you, but leave me alone.”


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm just... so sorry. I never meant for it to be this long between chapters.
> 
> As always, many thanks to Linux for reading it over and giving me some suggestions.

_XVI_

Geralt was still asleep when Yennefer woke up the next morning, the diffuse rays of sunlight streaming through the frosted windows and highlighting the silver strands of his hair and the short scruff of his beard. The fire in the hearth had died out overnight, and each puff of breath that escaped his lips crystallized in the cold air, swirls of white mist that settled and disappeared on the pillow pressed to his cheek.

Smiling softly, the sorceress turned onto her side to face him, ignoring the dull pain that flared through her. It would settle after a moment, after all, and she so rarely got to see him like this, all of his hardened, calloused edges smoothed out by sleep. Even in retirement, his mutations left him with little need for sleep, and, more often than not, she would open her eyes to find him already awake.

Pressing herself against him, she turned her cheek to his chest, feeling the slow thump of his witcher’s heart reverberating through him. She could easily remember the first time she had heard it, how his jaw had tightened in angry impatience when she mentioned it. It had maintained its steady, calming beat even as he stood, wrapped only in a towel, in a Novigradian merchant’s bath-chamber in Rinde while she studied him, sizing him up.

Running one hand up the bare skin of his arms and shoulders, she mused at how many new scars he had accrued since then, tracing each one carefully, almost reverently with the pads of her fingers. The purple slashes from a leshen’s claws raking down his bicep, the thin white slash of a mercenary’s blade ghosting over rippling muscle, she studied them all with a careful concentration, committing them to memory.

Her fingers paused when they reached the scars over his heart, a triad of puckered flesh that made her shiver and curl inwards against him. The smell of blood and burning seemed to rise up from memory to settle in her nostrils, and she pressed her lips together tightly and squeezed her eyes shut, trying to push the unbidden memories away.

The sheets rustled as Geralt stirred, a groan escaping him as he rolled from his back onto the side facing her, his nose so close as to be nearly brushing her forehead. At the feeling of his hand brushing over the curve of her hip beneath the covers, she looked up to see the gold of his eyes, sharp and glittering, nothing like their glazed, misted over appearance in Rivia.

“Is everything ok, Yen?” She smiled at the gruff drowsiness of his voice, his words still slow and heavy with sleep. Though he hadn’t complained, she knew how little rest he had gotten in the past couple months, could see the weight of his exhaustion pulling down at him. Leaning forward, she pressed her lips to the pulse point at his throat, feeling the powerful rush of the blood roaring through his veins.

“Don’t mind me, everything’s fine. Go back to sleep.” Grunting something indistinguishable, the witcher closed his eyes, his breathing evening out again in a matter of minutes.

The cold air bit at her skin as she got up, extricating herself from the tangle of sheets and limbs. Pulling her robe from the back of the armchair, she wrapped it around herself tightly before striding over to the fireplace, hoping to light a fire and warm up the room. Grabbing the flint and steel striker from atop the mantle, she bent down and stared at the soot-stained stone of the flue in concentration, her eyes hard as though trying to cow the fire into lighting itself.

It had been a very long time since she had last had to light a fire by hand, her instinct simply to hold out her hand and cast a spell. Without her pendant, though, to focus the magic, it was far too risky to channel even that small amount of energy. In Deireadh, that knowledge had kept her steady, offering a final escape she could turn to before she became like Sheala, like all the other sorceresses in those accursed cells. Now, though, it was simply an annoyance, and with a sigh she resigned herself to it and set about stacking the wood the way she had seen the witcher do.

The spark didn’t catch the first time, nor the second. Huffing angrily, she rearranged the logs, then the kindling, but no matter what she did the small pinpoint of light and heat died out and no flames rose to lick at the dry bark. Biting down on her lip, she shook her head in frustration, curls flying out, and struck the steel with all her strength.

The flint slipped from her fingers, stiff and clumsy, scraping against the back of her hand and flying across the room, clattering against the far wall. Growling loudly, she slammed her fist against the floorboards and swore colourfully. Behind her, she heard a gruff chuckle.

“I’m fairly certain the fire doesn’t care all that much about what you think of it, Yen. If you’re hoping to insult it until it lights itself, you might want to try more conventional methods. How is it that you’ve lived for more than a century, and you still don’t know how to start a fire?”

“Was it out of that same curiosity that you decided to watch me struggle and not do anything, or were you just taking pleasure in watching me have a hard time?”

Frowning, Geralt got up from the bed, his hair disheveled and eyes bleary, and sat down behind her on the floor, wrapping his arms around her shoulders. Yennefer was impossibly tense, her back straight as a rod, and he squeezed tighter, hoping to make her relax.

“Everything will sort itself out, you’ve just got to give it time.” The witcher’s breath was warm against her cheek, his voice low and soft. Closing her eyes, the sorceress allowed herself to lean back against his chest, one hand resting on his forearm over her stomach. She didn’t say anything, but he could hear her answer in the weight of her sigh, the way she let him hold her.

The thought came to him that they had done this all before, emerging from the shadows of Stygga and all that had happened there. It made him very tired.

He was pulled back to the present by Yennefer’s shivering, the skin of her bare arms rough with goose flesh. Easing her off of him, he groaned as he pushed himself to his feet, moving to retrieve the flint from across the room. The sorceress was standing when he looked back, pulling a black shawl over her shoulders, her back straight and her chin high.

He wished the moment had lasted just a bit longer.

While he busied himself lighting the fire, he could hear her moving around the room, the shuffle of bare feet on the wood floors and the rustle of clothing as she got dressed, preparing the mask of makeup and ornate gowns she would wear for the day. As the first sparks caught on the kindling, her breathing became heavy with pain, a sharp whistling inhale followed by poorly concealed panting breaths. He wanted to go to her, make sure she was alright, check that none of her wounds had reopened, but he knew better than to try.

Sometimes he worried that she enjoyed suffering quietly, imagining herself alone, like some kind of penance. He supposed, in a way, he could understand that.

The tongues of flame caught on the wood, licking their way up the curling bark, but he stayed staring at it, shifting the logs with a poker, until the heat scorched the skin of his face, wishing he could avoid the rest of the day, avoid playing pretend that everything was fine while Yennefer winced and stewed in her own thoughts.

She was standing by his side of the bed when he turned around, staring mutely at the heavy book that sat on his nightstand. Her features seemed to be working through varying emotions, anger, grief, frustration, before settling into stony impassivity. She didn’t move, and he didn’t either, eyes locked on her hand hovering over the leather cover, hoping vainly that she would just turn away.

The gold-leaf lettering scrawled along the spine shone as the light of the fire reflected off of it, taunting him brazenly. Stoic and unmoved, like the sorceress who had penned it. _The Poisoned Source_.

Her fingers curled inwards before snapping back outwards, once, twice, a third time, a strange, mesmerizing dance, and though her face was devoid of any emotion, he knew her well enough to see the struggle happening within her.

“Yen-“

“Why, Geralt?” Her words weren’t angry, but he winced as if they were. They were filled with an exhaustion he had heard only a few times before, and he clenched his fists to stop himself from reaching out.

The fires of Belleteyn, people dancing and singing in the distance while the grass brushes at his bare arms. Yennefer, her raven curls a halo around her while her violet eyes look at him with that same indescribable weariness.

_“Destiny is not enough. Something more is needed.”_

Something more. And they had found it in Ciri, the ashen-haired witcher girl with the scraped knees and a princess’ heritage. Surely, that was enough.

Those same, piercing eyes stayed on him as he crossed the room, watching as he took the book from under her now shaking hand, opening the thick, vellum pages to where he had dog-eared one corner before handing it over to her.

“You told me that illusions risked becoming reality when you first woke up, do you remember that?” He looked at her face, trying to read what she was thinking, but it was carefully blank, her lips nearly white as she pressed them tightly together. Walking over to the nightstand, he opened the drawer and slipped something into the palm of his hand.

“The thing is, I have some experience with illusions myself. Both the kind you read about in your spell books, and…” Looking down at his hands, the witcher swallowed, “and the kind that doesn’t require any magic at all. Maybe the sorceresses at Aretuza are right, and illusions can become real, but I promise you that even if this illusion becomes real for you, it won’t ever be part of my reality, nor Ciri’s. And I will spend however long you need to convince you of that fact.” Smiling he turned over the object in his hand, feeling the metal warm under his skin. “I am, after all, quite stubborn. Nearly as bad as Ciri, I think you told me once.”

When he looked up again Yennefer hadn’t moved, her eyes fixed on the page in front of her, but he thought he caught the tail end of a small smile at the corner of her lips. Though she had the book tilted away from him, he could still see the runes she would be reading in his mind, the thin scrawling script of her mentor’s handwriting scratched into the parchment. Ascertaining that while the effects of sterilization on the body were irreversible, the effects on the mind were less so. Mouth turning down as his face became serious, Geralt caught her eye as he pressed her obsidian star into her hand.

“What we have now is enough. Nothing more is needed.”

Fingers curling stiffly around the pendant, she looked up from the tome to study him carefully, eyes guarded as they passed over his features, searching for something.

“If what you’ve said is true, why didn’t you tell me how I hurt Ciri? Or do you have some doubts of your own that you’d rather not tell me about?”

Grimacing, the witcher stopped himself from asking her how she had found out, biting his tongue before the words could come spilling out.

“It wasn’t your fault, you were confused and in pain, and you were… I…” Sighing, he sat down the bed, rubbing at his eyes with one hand. “It’s not you I have doubts about.”

Slipping her pendant into the pocket of her dress she watched him for a moment before nodding and sitting down beside him. Taking his hand into her lap, she didn’t say anything, letting her head fall until it rested on his shoulder.

“Yen?”

“Mhmm.” Eyes closed, he could feel her soft breathing on his shoulder.

“What you said when I found you… you knew I was looking for you, right? That I hadn’t just forgotten about you?”

“Of course.” Her voice was gentle and he knew it was a lie, but he held the answer close to his chest nonetheless, because he knew that small concession was her comforting him in turn.

A little sacrifice.

It was cold outside, but in their small room the fire flared in the hearth, and on the window the ice began to melt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember when I used to updated weekly? Wild.  
> I really am terrible sorry about how long this took me. That being said, I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Currently, I plan to have two more chapters for this story, though that's subject to change depending on if I feel I need more to wrap things up. Because I'm smack in the middle of exams right now, there for sure won't be another chapter soon, but I'll do my best to keep it within a month instead of 5(?)

**Author's Note:**

> Hoped you liked it! It will be multi-chapter, and I'm going to do my best to update weekly, but I can't do anymore than that because of school. Any comments/suggestions/constructive criticism are of course greatly appreciated.


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